Isle Royale Page 4

  “Inside now, Ian,” his mother commanded.

  Collene shooed the boy into the safety of the house, then paused a moment to watch the storm lashing the island. She looked up at the lighthouse at the other end of the compound. She could see Clarence up in the lamp room, trying to patch the hole in the window, his silhouette roaming back and forth in the tower, busy as a worker ant. Collene smiled sadly.

  She listened as Ian trudged upstairs to his room. She turned to follow, but suddenly froze as something in the courtyard caught her eye. She squinted, trying to see in the dim light.

  At the edge of the clearing, well hidden by the surrounding stands of pine, Jean LeBeck stood half in the shadows, his black raincoat making him nearly invisible. Rain fell on him unnoticed as he locked eyes with Collene.

  “Jean?” she whispered in shocked disbelief.

  Collene stepped off the porch onto the rain-slicked grass, paying no heed to the wind and rain tearing at her nightgown. She held her hands to her face, shielding her eyes, trying to peer through the shadows.

  As quickly as he had appeared, LeBeck melted back into the darkness. Collene took another step forward, then stopped. She cried out, louder now.

  “Jean!”

  High up in the tower, Clarence stood outside against the outer rail, looking down on the clearing. His white knuckles gripped the rail as the wind tugged at him, trying to tear him away. He held on for another moment, then relented as a blast of wind sent him reeling back inside.

  The storm blustered on, trying to whip the landscape into submission. The lighthouse continued shining, an unmoving citadel in the face of chaos.

  Chapter Four

  Old Ollhoff strained against the oars of his small fishing boat. He squinted, white bushy eyebrows crammed together, as he tried to make out his surroundings. The night was pitch, except for the staccato bursts of lightning exploding from the storm-laden sky. In sharp contrast to the violence above, gentle waves of black water passed under the hull of Ollhoff’s boat. It was a far cry from the monstrous surf that had nearly killed him just minutes earlier.

  The old Norwegian fisherman had been out working the lake, brushing off the warnings about the impending storm by his friends at the fishing village. But Ollhoff had set out anyway, his courage fortified by the bottle of gin hidden in his lunch basket. He’d be damned if he’d let the Lady prevent him from his daily catch of lake trout. After all, he had a family back in Oslo to support.

  His decision had proven disastrous. After an hour of fishing, Ollhoff opted for an early “lunch,” then promptly drank himself into a stupor. When he finally awoke, the sun had set, the sky was ablaze with lightning, and whitecaps were crashing into the side of his tiny boat. Worst of all, he had a smashing headache.

  With no idea where he was or for how long he’d drifted (he gave a silent thanks for not crashing up on shore while unconscious), Ollhoff put his muscles to work and began rowing like a madman.

  At first, he considered his chances grim. With little twilight to guide him, he could only steer toward land and hope not to be smashed up on some jagged shore. Survival seemed remote. On the other hand, if he stayed out on the open water, he’d be dead for sure.

  As Ollhoff neared the island, he saw that he was heading for a narrow cove, its mouth guarded on either side by frightening cliffs of granite. Huge swells rolled up and exploded against the rocks. Ollhoff knew his course of action was set: he had to make a run for that cove or end up dead on the cliffs. The old fisherman put everything he had into the oars, trying to gain enough speed to escape the swells and propel him into the cove.

  The next few minutes were a blur to him. He remembered the roar of water crashing against the cliffs rising up on either side of him, cold wind and spray stinging his face, sheer terror as lightning illuminated the scene, revealing in stark detail the utter hopelessness of it all. His boat seemed completely enveloped by the raging waters and white foam, his world transformed into a lunatic mosaic of noise and fury.

  And then it was over.

  One moment Ollhoff was prepared to die, the next he was floating free on sheltered water. He continued stroking the oars, moving deeper up the cove, eager to put as much distance between himself and the raging waters of the open lake. Steep forested hills rose up on both sides of the fjord-like inlet. The trees on the ridgetops waved and thrashed in the wind, but down at water level it was eerily quiet, except for the occasional thunderclap. Ollhoff took a deep breath. The scent of pine wafted over the water from the stands of evergreens on either shore.

  After several minutes, the water became downright placid. Ollhoff shuddered. It just wasn’t right. Too quiet, too tranquil for a stormy night like this. With a growing feeling of dread, he wondered if, perhaps, he hadn’t stumbled into McCargoe Cove. He shuddered again involuntarily. Local legend said McCargoe Cove was haunted. Ollhoff didn’t pay much heed to ghost stories, but a night like this, while alone and lost with lightning crackling overhead, could make a believer out of anyone. Ollhoff rowed onward, deeper and deeper into the cove, as if drawn in by some unseen force.

  Suddenly, an unearthly bellowing came from the trees to his right, about thirty yards away. Ollhoff froze; he felt his heart pounding against his ribs. Something crashed through the trees and stopped at the waterline. It was big, whatever it was, and stood there at the shore, staring at the fisherman. Ollhoff squinted, trying to see in the murky light.

  A smile broke out on his face. A moose. It was only a moose, dipping its head to drink from the lake. The old fisherman breathed a sigh of relief.

  On any other night he wouldn’t have been so startled. Moose by the hundreds roamed all over Isle Royale. It hadn’t always been so. Ollhoff knew a fisherman who’d seen a herd swimming across the channel years ago. With no natural predators on the island, the moose population had exploded, nearly to the point where the herds had used up their food supply.

  Ollhoff smiled grimly. Nature, he knew, always finds a way to even things out. Just last winter, he’d heard tell that the lake had frozen so hard it nearly created an ice bridge to the Minnesota shoreline. Packs of wolves were seen prowling the ice, sniffing the air, howling, frustrated at the maddeningly narrow stretch of water separating them from the fat herds of moose on the island. Sooner or later, Ollhoff knew, a deep freeze would hit, bridging the gap. Then, the wolves would feast like kings.

  A smaller shape appeared near the moose as it took its drink. It was a calf, nudging up next to its mother. Ollhoff steered his boat out, closer to the middle of the cove. Best not to disturb a cow moose and her young.

  After rowing a bit farther up the cove, Ollhoff began to relax when, just up ahead, he saw what looked like tiny green lights dancing in the air on the far shore. Now what? He squinted hard, trying to focus his aged eyes.

  A sound blasted across the water, a noise so loud and horrible that Ollhoff dropped his oars and covered his ears. It was a hollow, metallic thundering, like someone opening the gates of hell itself.

  A great churning followed the noise, as something enormously big began moving away from shore. Ollhoff’s eyes first perceived it as a dark shadow sliding onto the lake, with little green lights dashing around on top. Then he noticed that the shadow had an outline, an eerie phosphorescent glow that sent shivers down his spine. It was a ship, some kind of sidewheel paddle steamer, its running lights off, heading straight toward him. Ollhoff picked up the oars and dug in, trying to steer away from the oncoming phantom.

  The fisherman trembled as his little rowboat skidded across the water. It was true! McCargoe Cove was haunted!

  As he rowed, Ollhoff saw the ship bearing down on him fast. Its paddles stroked the water furiously, propelling the craft faster and faster through the water. No matter where Ollhoff steered, the steamer seemed to change course, like it was deliberately trying to run him down. In no time at all, the rowboat would be plowed under the huge hull of the ghost ship. As it sailed ever closer, Ollhoff could make out the ship’s name,
painted in glowing green. The Chippewa. Strange, he thought. He couldn’t remember a paddle steamer by that name plying the waters around Isle Royale. And then Ollhoff was even more amazed that he’d actually wasted precious moments pondering the ship’s name. Of course he didn’t recognize the name; it was the devil’s handiwork.

  The ship was nearly upon him now. Ollhoff cursed his luck. He couldn’t steer clear, and he sure as hell couldn’t outrun the steamer. Only one thing to do: into the drink and pray he didn’t get caught in the steamer’s paddles as it went over him.

  With a shout Ollhoff leapt overboard, just as the ghostly steamer loomed overhead. He felt the shock of the icy water as he plunged in, then drew in a breath and kicked downward, desperately trying to avoid being struck by the hull as the ship passed overhead. The sidepaddles angrily churned up the water just behind him, the sound roaring in the old fisherman’s ears.

  Ollhoff opened his eyes underwater and looked up. Through a curtain of froth and bubbles he saw his little rowboat smashed into tiny bits as the steamer passed overhead.

  Ollhoff, his lungs nearly bursting, finally surfaced next to the remains of his rowboat. Spitting water and gasping for breath, he hung onto a piece of driftwood and watched as the ghost ship steamed away from him. He squinted and saw several green lights gathering on deck near the stern.

  Ollhoff gasped. The lights were faces! He shuddered as he counted nearly a dozen staring sadly back at him. They were gaunt, tired-looking, with long white beards and haunted, piercing eyes. Ollhoff shut his own eyes tight, saying a silent prayer and looking away. When he glanced back again, the faces were gone. Only the ship remained, its ghostly shape gliding farther and farther up the cove.

  Finally, the steamer disappeared from view. Without hesitating another moment, Ollhoff swam for shore, his arms cutting through the water at a frenzied pace. That’s it, the old fisherman thought. Enough is enough. He would go back by foot through the forest, nevermind the storm and dark of night.

  Rain began falling in sheets, but this made Ollhoff all the more determined. He vowed that if he made it back to the fishing village alive, didn’t die of hypothermia, get trampled by a moose, or fall off a cliff, he would book the first ship back to Norway and quit drinking, in that order. Enough of this wretched country and its terrible, haunted waters.

  Chapter Five

  When dawn broke the following morning, all traces of the storm had vanished. The air was clear and cool. Gone were the black clouds, replaced instead by a breathtaking blue sky that receded to an infinite horizon. Seagulls soared overhead, borne on a slight breeze that tickled the treetops, caused them to wave ever so gently. The gulls’ shrill cry echoed against the great granite cliffs of Wolf Point, mixing with the sound of surf lapping at the water’s edge. The Lady was fast asleep now, spent from the previous night’s rampage. The lake reflected the sunrise like glass.

  Sally Young stood at the kitchen sink, disinterested, as she slowly dried a stack of dishes. The smell of freshly baked bread permeated the room, emanating from the iron stove in the corner next to the sink. The wood fire underneath crackled and popped. It was a chilly morning, and the heat from the fire felt good on Sally’s legs. Behind her, she heard her grandma clearing the kitchen table and putting away food in the pantry.

  As Sally methodically rubbed the cotton drying cloth over a large white porcelain plate, she gazed out the window over the sink. Across the compound, she saw the lighthouse, perched on the cliff overlooking placid Lake Superior. The lighthouse, like the lake, seemed asleep now, having stood vigil the night before.

  Sally was tall for her sixteen years. She was a pretty girl, with pale blue eyes and raised cheekbones that set off her face. She wore a blue and white frock, with a pair of high-topped brown leather shoes. In her blond hair, which was cut in a short bob, she wore a blue bow, a concession to fashion upon which her grandmother insisted.

  Sally seemed ill suited to this domestic setting. She was calm like the water, and yet, behind her crystal eyes burned fire. She was a free spirit, more at ease piloting a sailboat than serving tea or knitting clothes. She considered herself a modern girl of the Twenties, ready to take on the world, except for the fact that she was temporarily stuck in the middle of nowhere. But she made the best of things, and if truth be told, she enjoyed the rugged atmosphere of the lighthouse and Isle Royale.

  “Sally, dear, fetch me a glass of water.”

  “Yes, Grandma.”

  Sally filled a glass from the sink and then turned. In front of her sat her grandmother, a kindly looking old woman with gray hair and bifocals perched on her button nose. Next to her sat Sally’s father, Edward, hunched over a steaming bowl of water, a towel draped over his head.

  “Better today, Dad?” asked Sally, handing her grandma the glass of water. In response, a groan escaped from under the towel. Sally’s grandmother took the glass of water and poured in some sort of brownish-reddish powder from a medicine jar, creating a foul-looking concoction.

  “He’ll be fine with a few days’ rest and another glass of this,” Grandma said, holding the glass out and nudging Edward with her bony elbow. A louder groan came from under the towel. It moved.

  Assistant Lightkeeper Edward Young emerged. With sunken eyes and a pasty white face, he looked like death warmed over. But when he saw Sally, his face crinkled with a feeble smile.

  “I’m doin’ fine, pumpkin. It’s Grandma’s home remedies that got me down.”

  They both laughed. It was the first time Sally had seen her father smile in the two days since he’d been sick. At first they thought he had flu, or maybe even scarlet fever. The first night, he was burning up with a temperature of 103 degrees, quite a serious matter considering that the nearest hospital was hours away by boat, if they could even find a boat to take them. But thanks to Grandma, who forced him to drink as much water as possible to prevent dehydration, plus (or despite) her home remedies and liberal amounts of Williams Anti-Pahn Ointment, Edward was making a slow recovery. It must have been a common virus, Grandma had declared, not the dreaded flu. Which was a relief, because otherwise they’d all be under quarantine. (Of course, as Sally had noted, they were already quarantined at Wolf Point Light, for all practical purposes.)

  “Hush now,” Grandma admonished Edward. “Take your medicine.”

  The assistant lightkeeper grimaced, then downed the liquid as fast as he could. When the ordeal was complete, he retreated under the towel, groaning pitifully. Grandma rapped him lightly upside the head.

  “Stop that,” she scolded. “You’re a grown man, for heaven’s sake.”

  Sally smiled and turned back to her dishes. When her mother had died giving birth, Sally’s grandma had moved in to help take care of the baby. Devastated by the loss of his beloved wife, Edward had never remarried, and Sally’s grandma had stayed on all these years, even when Edward had joined the Lighthouse Service and moved the family to the ends of the earth. She was the only mother Sally had ever known, and neither she nor her father could imagine what life would have been like without her.

  Sally smiled again to herself as she put the dishes away in a stack on a shelf over the sink. Then, out the window, she saw Ian MacDougal approaching the cliffs just below the lighthouse. The teenager was carrying a long length of rope slung over his shoulder.

  Sally bit her lower lip, then turned around again. “I’m done with the dishes now, Grandma.”

  “Did you finish your schoolwork?” the old woman asked, as she put away a jar of homemade boysenberry jam.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sally turned back to the window and watched as Ian tied one end of the rope to a gnarled pine tree on the lip of the cliff, wrapped a section around his waist, and then disappeared over the edge.

  Grandma persisted. “Did you take your cod liver oil?”

  “Yes,” she repeated.

  A pause. “Okay, then.”

  Sally quickly moved to the table and kissed the top of her father’s towel-drape
d head. He moaned and waved good-bye with one upraised hand. Sally grinned and then hurried out the back door.

  Ian’s heart raced as he eased himself backwards over the cliff, one hand gripped tightly to the rope above him, the other hand skillfully adjusting the loop wrapped around his waist. Every time Ian went rappelling, there was that first leap of faith, that brief moment of terror when he leaned back over the edge, certain he was about to fall to his death. But the moment always passed, as it did this day, and Ian soon went about the business of bouncing down the cliff face of Wolf Point.

  His parents had never understood Ian’s passion for rock climbing. He’d picked up the basics from the older brother of a friend back home in Two Harbors. A totally useless hobby, his father had told him. His mother couldn’t bear the thought of her son dangling off some granite cliff, and begged him to take up a nicer sport, like football, or butterfly collecting. But the lure of the rock always kept Ian coming back for more. He couldn’t help himself.

  When he was scaling a cliff, nature was the only competition. There were no schoolbooks to study, no nagging parents, no chores to complete. In fact, there were no rules or regulations save one: don’t fall. Ian had to rely on his own skills, his own cunning, to conquer the rock. He enjoyed feeling his heart pound, his breath quicken, as he tested his courage, strength, and stamina. Rock climbing was his escape from a summer of mind-numbing boredom. At the lighthouse, he felt dead inside.

  Except for Sally. This year, something had changed between them. They’d known each other for three seasons, and their friendship had grown deep. But now, Ian felt something else for her, something he knew was more than simple friendship. He wondered if she felt the same way toward him. The signals were there, and yet… Ian could never quite muster the courage to outright ask her. Now that the season was drawing to a close, it would soon be too late. But how to ask her? And what to say?