The daily Astorian., October 25, 2018, Page 17, Image 16

OCTOBER 25, 2018 // 17
Continued from Page 9
He picked at Kyle a few times with
the hook until Kyle stopped twisting the
blade, then Nathan swam back onto his
feet, crashing up against the wheel-
house.
Kyle raised two red fingers as if
asking for a timeout. Nathan wanted
nothing more, but instead he tilted for-
ward and, with enormous effort, tossed
Kyle off the bow of the boat into Black
Lake.
He shook the lock of hair from his
fist. He’d never thrown anything back
before.
He slumped to the deck and cringed.
The knife handle was still planted flan-
nel-deep in his chest. He pretended to
count to three and slid it out on one, the
pain so acute it felt cold, like exhaling
mountain air through a new hole.
The boat drifted backward until it
knocked against some unmovable thing
in the lake. With the bow raised Nathan
had no trouble stammering down the
deck to the stern, which had by now
taken on a foot of water.
It was the trunk of Char’s sub-
merged Buick, showing like the tip
of an iceberg. There was a Scottie
dog swimming around it. Nathan was
close enough to pet either of them, but
decided no.
Black Lake is not a particularly
deep lake, in fact, for its size, it’s quite
shallow. Nathan had never really cared
why its waters were, normally, so dark
and lifeless. If pressed, he might spout
something about the trees cradling it
against an absentee sun, or soil whatya-
macallit, but he was beginning to take
to the notion that it had something to do
with the lake’s temperament.
Blinking his eyes, he followed the
phosphorescent waters to find the shore.
He had already given so much blood
to this boat he hoped Kyle had never
stolen a shark.
Sara Olson’s shrine burnt ablaze.
Holding sentry at the water line were
a dozen people carrying torches. They
were hooded in robes and wearing fish
masks — no, not masks, actual fish
heads, halibut, stretched and bound
across their faces, each of their deep-
sea mouths cocked aghast, exposing
razor-sharp equipment. Some seemed to
be holding a platform about the size of
a wiggling door, sharing the weight like
pallbearers.
“Man,” Nathan said. “There really
are no secrets at Black Lake.”
Some kneeled, plucking rings and
jewelry from the shore as dogs and
cats shook off all around them. Others
tended to Sara’s candles. The rest stood
right as Beefeaters, either hoisting the
platform or holding the torches.
“Help me!”
The young voice echoed across the
lake and could probably be heard on the
other side of Sandridge Road.
When she screamed, they stopped
their pilfering, turning 24 beady eyes
never meant to see the night air right at
him.
He raised one bloody hand, tapping
out. There will be no more years from
here.
Could Kyle have twisted an antenna
upon some grand business he was too
dumb to tune? Even a fake psychic can
nickel off a winning scratch, right?
Without a word between them, the
halibut people slunk off down the dirt
road away from the boat ramp toward
Cranmac Farms, their lamb now docile
and in tow.
Nathan wanted nothing more than
to help that poor girl but he didn’t have
enough syrup left in him to help even
himself. What irked him hollow as that
hemlock over there was the idea that
Kyle could have been selling even a
single half-truth tonight.
Dawn would burst soon, even over
Black Lake. He took a hard seat up to
his waist in burgundy. The stern kept
kissing the Buick’s bumper.
He liked the idea of rest under the
warranty that his body would remain
still.
“Oh Char,” he said. “I could have
never done anything like that to you,
right?”
You’ll never really know, will you?
The objects in the lake began to
sink as the sky began to break with
pink and orange cracks. The barking
ceased. There is an impermanence
to everything, he was beginning to
see: life, relationships, even a selkie’s
curse.
Soon all of Kyle’s misdeeds would
return to a deep much deeper than the
true bottom of the lake allowed, but at
least one thing besides the sinking boat
would remain floating face down on the
surface.
And someone had to be here in the
morning to tell the police exactly what
they would find when they dredged
Black Lake. Someone had to be here to
get a thank-you.
It wouldn’t be Nathan. He wouldn’t
live to see the sunrise finish or get his
handshake. He would never be revered
for his so-called gifts the way Kyle
was. He would find his rest, though —
both body and mind finally slumbering
together. First, he would find it on a
cold metal slab, bunking next to his
bloated friend Kyle and whatever scraps
of Bill Lingard the police could collect.
Finally, he would repose in a state-
bought urn.
Cranberry harvests will start the next
weekend. They will find the body of
Sara Olson bejeweled in ruby-red vines
in a bog down the dirt road from Black
Lake. The police will scratch their
heads, having combed this marsh, but
you cannot find a body before there is a
body to find.
Unlike Nathan, Sara Olson will not
be forgotten. She will be survived by
her friends and family who will think
about her often. There will even be a
large yearbook spread and a scholarship
started in her name made possible by a
large donation from something called
The Halibut Club.
Some will thank her every harvest. CW