By the Silver Water of Lake Champlain

  CONTENTS

  “By the Silver Water of Lake Champlain”

  About the Author

  Also by Joe Hill

  Copyright

  Credits

  About the Publisher

  BY THE SILVER WATER OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN

  Joe Hill

  The robot shuffled clank-clank into the pitch dark of the bedroom, then stood staring down at the humans.

  The female human groaned and rolled away and folded a pillow over her head.

  “Gail, honey,” said the male, licking dry lips. “Mother has a headache. Can you take that noise out of here?”

  “I CAN PROVIDE A STIMULATING CUP OF COFFEE,” boomed the robot in an emotionless voice.

  “Tell her to get out, Raymond,” said the female. “My head is exploding.”

  “Go on, Gail. You can hear mother isn’t herself,” said the male.

  “YOU ARE INCORRECT. I HAVE SCANNED HER VITALS,” said the robot. “I HAVE IDENTIFIED HER AS SYLVIA LONDON. SHE IS HERSELF.”

  The robot tilted her head to one side, inquisitively, waiting for more data. The pot on her head fell off and hit the floor with a great steely crash.

  Mother sat up screaming. It was a wretched, anguished, inhuman sound, with no words in it, and it frightened the robot so much, for a moment she forgot she was a robot and she was just Gail again. She snatched her pot off the floor and hurried clangedy-clang-clang to the relative safety of the hall.

  She peeked back into the room. Mother was already lying down, holding the pillow over her head again.

  Raymond smiled across the darkness at his daughter. “Maybe the robot can formulate an antidote for martini poisoning,” he whispered, and winked.

  The robot winked back.

  For a while the robot worked on her prime directive, formulating the antidote that would drive the poison out of Sylvia London’s system. The robot stirred orange juice and lemon juice and ice cubes and butter and sugar and dish soap in a coffee mug. The resulting solution foamed and turned a lurid sci-fi green, suggestive of Venutian slime and radiation.

  Gail thought the antidote might go down better with some toast and marmalade. Only there was a programming error; the toast burnt. Or maybe it was her own crossed wires beginning to smoke, shorting out the subroutines that required her to follow Asimov’s laws. With her circuit boards sizzling inside her, Gail began to malfunction. She tipped over chairs with great crashes and pushed books off the kitchen counter onto the floor. It was a terrible thing but she couldn’t help herself.

  Gail didn’t hear her mother rushing across the room behind her, didn’t know she was there until Sylvia jerked the pot off her head and flung it into the enamel sink.

  “What are you doing?” Sylvia screamed. “What in the name of sweet Mary God? If I hear one more thing crash over, I’ll take a hatchet to someone. My own self maybe.”

  Gail said nothing, felt silence was safest.

  “Get out of here before you burn the house down. My God, the whole kitchen stinks. This toast is ruined. And what did you pour in this Goddam mug?”

  “It will cure you,” Gail said.

  “There isn’t no cure for me,” her mother said, which was a double negative, but Gail didn’t think it wise to correct her. “I wish I had one boy. Boys are quiet. You four girls are like a tree full of sparrows, the shrill way you carry on.”

  “Ben Quarrel isn’t quiet. He never stops talking.”

  “You ought to go outside. All of you ought to go outside. I don’t want to hear any of you again until I have breakfast made.”

  Gail shuffled toward the living room.

  “Take those pots off your feet,” her mother said, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the windowsill.

  Gail daintily removed one foot, then the other, from the pots she had been using for robot boots.

  Heather sat at the dining room table, bent over her drawing pad. The twins, Miriam and Mindy, were playing wheelbarrow. Mindy would hoist Miriam up by the ankles and walk her across the room, Miriam clambering along on her hands.

  Gail stared over Heather’s shoulder at what her older sister was drawing. Then Gail got her kaleidoscope and peered at the drawing through that. It didn’t look any better.

  She lowered her kaleidoscope and said, “Do you want me to help you with your drawing? I can show you how to draw a cat’s nose.”

  “It isn’t a cat.”

  “Oh. What is it?”

  “It’s a pony.”

  “Why is it pink?”

  “I like them pink. There should be some that are pink. That’s a better color than most of the regular horse colors.”

  “I’ve never seen a horse with ears like that. It would be better if you drew whiskers on it and let it be a cat.”

  Heather crushed her drawing in one hand and stood up so quickly she knocked over her chair.

  In the exact same moment, Mindy wheelbarrowed Miriam into the edge of the coffee table with a great bang. Miriam shrieked and grabbed her head and Mindy dropped her ankles and Miriam hit the floor so hard the whole house shook.

  “GODDAM IT WILL YOU STOP THROWING THE GODDAM CHAIRS AROUND?” screamed their mother, reeling in from the kitchen. “WHY DO YOU ALL HAVE TO THROW THE GODDAM CHAIRS? WHAT DO I HAVE TO SAY TO MAKE YOU STOP?”

  “Heather did it,” Gail said.

  “I did not!” Heather said. “It was Gail!” She did not view this as a lie. It seemed to her that somehow Gail had done it, just by standing there and being ignorant.

  Miriam sobbed, clutching her head. Mindy picked up the book about Peter Rabbit and stood there staring into it, idly turning the pages, the young scholar bent to her studies.

  Their mother grabbed Heather by the shoulders, squeezing them until her knuckles went white.

  “I want you to go outside. All of you. Take your sisters and go away. Go far away. Go down to the lake. Don’t come back until you hear me calling.”

  They spilled into the yard, Heather and Gail and Mindy and Miriam. Miriam wasn’t crying anymore. She had stopped crying the moment their mother went back into the kitchen.

  Big sister Heather told Miriam and Mindy to sit in the sandbox and play.

  “What should I do?” Gail asked.

  “You could go drown yourself in the lake.”

  “That sounds fun,” Gail said, and skipped away down the hill.

  Miriam stood in the sandbox with a little tin shovel and watched her go. Mindy was already burying her own legs in the sand.

  It was early and cool. The mist was over the water and the lake was like battered steel. Gail stood on her father’s dock, next to her father’s boat, watching the way the pale vapor churned and changed in the dimness. Like being inside a kaleidoscope filled with foggy gray beach glass. She still had her kaleidoscope, patted it in the pocket of her dress. On a sunny day, Gail could see the green slopes on the other side of the water, and she could look up the stony beach, to the north, all the way to Canada, but now she could not see ten feet in front of her.

  She followed the narrow ribbon of beach toward the Quarrels’ summer place. There was only a yard of rocks and sand between the water and the embankment, less in some places.

  Something caught the light, and Gail bent to find a piece of dark green glass that had been rubbed soft by the lake. It was either green glass or an emerald. She discovered a dented silver spoon, not two feet away.

  Gail turned her head and stared out again at the silvered surface of the lake.

  She had an idea a ship had gone down, someone’s schooner, not far offshore, and she was discovering the treasure washed in by the tide. A spoon and an emerald couldn’t be a coincidence.

  She l
owered her head and walked along, slower now, on the lookout for more salvage. Soon enough she found a tin cowboy with a tin lasso. She felt a shiver of pleasure, but also sorrow. There had been a child on the boat.

  “He’s probably dead now,” she said to herself, and looked sadly out at the water once more.

  “Drowned,” she decided.

  She wished she had a yellow rose to throw into the water.

  Gail went on but had hardly trudged three paces when she heard a sound from across the lake, a long, mournful lowing, like a foghorn, but also not like one.

  She stopped for another look.

  The mist smelt of rotting smelt.

  The foghorn did not sound again.

  An enormous gray boulder rose out of the shallows here, rising right up onto the sand. Some net was snarled around it. After a moment of hesitation, Gail grabbed the net and climbed to the top.

  It was a really large boulder, higher than her head. It was curious she had never noticed it before, but then, things looked different in the mist.

  Gail stood on the boulder, which was high but also long, sloping away to her right, and curling in a crescent out into the water on her left. It was a low ridge of stone marking the line between land and water.

  She peered out into the cool, blowing smoke, looking for the rescue ship that had to be out there somewhere, trolling for survivors of the wreck. Maybe it wasn’t too late for the little boy. She lifted her kaleidoscope to her eye, counting on its special powers to penetrate the mist and show her where the schooner had gone down.

  “What are you doing?” said someone behind her.

  Gail looked over her shoulder. It was Joel and Ben Quarrel, both of them barefoot. Ben Quarrel looked just like a little version of his older brother. Both of them were dark-haired and dark-eyed and had surly, almost petulant faces. She liked them both, though. Ben would sometimes spontaneously pretend he was on fire, and throw himself down and roll around screaming and someone would have to put him out. He needed to be put out about once an hour. Joel liked dares, but he would never dare anyone to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. He had dared Gail to let a spider crawl on her face, a daddy longlegs, and then when she wouldn’t, he did it. He stuck his tongue out and let the daddy longlegs crawl right over it. She was afraid he would eat it, but he didn’t. Joel didn’t say much and he didn’t boast, even when he had done something amazing, like get five skips on a stone.

  She assumed they would be married someday. Gail had asked Joel if he thought he’d like that, and he had shrugged and said it suited him fine. That was in June, though, and they hadn’t talked about their engagement since. Sometimes she thought he had forgotten.

  “What happened to your eye?” she asked.

  Joel touched his left eye, which was surrounded by a painful looking red-and-brown mottling. “I was playing Daredevils of the Sky and fell out of my bunk bed.” He nodded toward the lake. “What’s out there?”

  “There’s a ship sank. They’re looking for survivors now.”

  Joel took off his shoes and put them up on the rock. Then he grabbed the netting tangled on the boulder, climbed to the top, and stood next to her, staring out into the mist.

  “What was the name?” he asked.

  “The name of what?”

  “The ship that sank.”

  “The Mary Celeste.”

  “How far out?”

  “A half a mile,” Gail said, and lifted her kaleidoscope to her eye for another look around.

  Through the lens, the dim water was shattered, again and again, into a hundred scales of ruby and chrome.

  “How do you know?” Joel asked after a bit.

  She shrugged. “I found some things that washed up.”

  “Can I see?” Ben Quarrel asked. He was having trouble climbing the net to the top of the boulder. He kept getting halfway, then jumping back down.

  She turned to face him and took the soft green glass out of her pocket.

  “This is an emerald,” she said. She took out the tin cowboy. “This is a tin cowboy. The boy this belonged to probably drowned.”

  “That’s my tin cowboy,” Ben said. “I left it yesterday.”

  “It isn’t. It just looks like yours.”

  Joel glanced over at it. “No. That’s his. He’s always leaving them on the beach. He hardly has any left.”

  Gail surrendered the point and tossed the tin cowboy down to Ben, who caught it, and lost interest in the sunk schooner. He turned his back to the great boulder and sat in the sand and got his cowboy into a fight with some pebbles. The pebbles kept hitting him and knocking him over. Gail didn’t think it was an even match.

  “What else do you have?” Joel asked.

  “This spoon,” Gail said. “It might be silver.”

  Joel squinted at it, then looked back at the lake.

  “Better let me have the telescope,” he said. “If there are people out there, we have as good a chance of spotting them as anyone searching for them on a boat.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” She gave him the kaleidoscope.

  Joel turned it this way and that, scanning the murk for survivors, his face tense with concentration.

  He lowered it at last and opened his mouth to say something. Before he could, the mournful foghorn sounded again. The water quivered. The foghorn sound went on for a long time before trailing sadly away.

  “I wonder what that is,” Gail said.

  “They fire cannons to bring dead bodies to the surface of the water,” Joel told her.

  “That wasn’t a cannon.”

  “It’s loud enough.”

  He lifted the kaleidoscope to his eye again and looked for a while more. Then he lowered it and pointed at a floating board.

  “Look. Part of the boat.”

  “Maybe it has the name of the boat on it.”

  Joel sat and rolled his jeans up to his knees. He dropped off the boulder into the water.

  “I’ll get it,” he said.

  “I’ll help,” Gail said, even though he didn’t need help. She took off her black shoes and put her socks inside them, then slid down the cold, rough stone into the water after him.

  The water was up over her knees in two steps and she didn’t go any farther because she was soaking her dress. Joel had the board anyway. He was up to his waist, peering down at it.

  “What does it say?” she asked.

  “Like you thought. It’s the Mary Celeste,” he said, and held up the board so she could see. There was nothing written on it.

  She bit her lip and stared out over the water. “If anyone rescues them, it’s going to have to be us. We should make a fire on the beach, so they know which way to swim. What do you think?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I said, ‘What do you think?’” she asked again, but then she saw the look on his face and knew he wasn’t going to answer, wasn’t even listening. “What’s wrong?”

  She looked back over her shoulder to see what he was staring at, his face rigid and his eyes wide.

  The boulder they had been standing on wasn’t a boulder. It was a dead animal. It was long, almost as long as two canoes lined end-to-end. The tail curled out into the water toward them, bobbing on the surface, thick as a fire hose. The head stretched out on the pebbly beach, even thicker, spade-shaped. Between the head and the tail, its body bulked up, thick around as a hippo. It wasn’t the mist that stank of rotting fish. It was the animal. Now that she was staring right at the thing, she didn’t know how she had ever stood on top of it, imagining it was a rock.

  Her chest tingled and crawled, like she had ants under her dress. The ant feeling was in her hair, too. She could see where the animal was torn open, in the place where its throat widened into its torso. Its insides were red and white, like the insides of any fish. There wasn’t a lot of blood for such a big hole.

  Joel gripped her hand. They stood up to their thighs in the water, staring at the dinosaur, which was as dead now as all the other
dinosaurs that had ever walked the earth.

  “It’s the monster,” Joel said, not that it needed to be said.

  They had all heard about the monster that lived in the lake. There was always a float in the Fourth of July parade, made up to look like a plesiosaur, a papier-mâché creature rising out of papier-mâché waters. In June there had been an article about the lake creature in the newspaper and Heather had started to read it aloud at the table, but their father made her stop.

  “There isn’t anything in the lake. That’s for tourists,” he had said then.

  “It says a dozen people saw it. It says they hit it with the ferry.”

  “A dozen people saw a log and got themselves all worked up. There’s nothing in this lake but the same fish that are in every other American lake.”

  “There could be a dinosaur,” Heather had insisted.

  “No. There couldn’t. Do you know how many of them there would have to be for a breeding population? People would be seeing them all the time. Now hush up. You’ll scare your sisters. I didn’t buy this cottage so the four of you can sit inside and fight all day. If you girls won’t go in the lake because you’re scared of some dumbass American Nessie, I’ll throw you in.”

  Now Joel said, “Don’t scream.”

  It had never crossed Gail’s mind to scream, but she nodded to show she was listening.

  “I don’t want to frighten Ben,” Joel told her in a low voice. Joel was shaking so hard his knees almost knocked. But then the water was very cold.

  “What do you think happened to it?” she asked.

  “There was that article in the paper about it getting hit by the ferry. Do you remember that article? A while back?”

  “Yes. But don’t you think it would’ve washed up months ago?”

  “I don’t think the ferry killed it. But maybe another ship hit it. Maybe it got chewed up in someone’s propeller. It obviously doesn’t know enough to stay out of the way of boats. It’s like when turtles try and cross the highway to lay eggs.”

  Holding hands, they waded closer to it.

  “It smells,” Gail said, and lifted the collar of her dress to cover her mouth and nose.

  He turned and looked at her, his eyes bright and feverish. “Gail London, we are going to be famous. They will put us in the newspaper. I bet on the front page, with a picture of us sitting on it.”