The Lake

The small cove with its gently curving shoreline on one side and jagged rock outcroppings on the other sat in a tranquil state off the main avenue of the lake. It was visited occasionally by teens that came to dive off the cliffs, fishermen zigzagging across it in search of a change of luck, and the waves that rolled in from passing boats. 

The divers never stayed for more than one jump, even the bravest among them felt something ominous about the quiet cove. The fishermen who visited never even got a nibble on their lines, almost as if no fish dared to swim in the waters there. The waves rolling into the cove knew. They knew the cove’s secret. Why the sense of foreboding crawled into the minds of those who visited, why fish dumb enough to fall for plastic worms were smart enough to avoid swimming there. The waves knew what was under them as they traveled across the cove to lap against the distant shore.

The murmurs around the small lakeside town would flinch to life every decade or so when someone would go missing around the lake. The whispers would spread to a new generation of the creature some said lived at the lake, or to be more precise, lived under the lake. For as many generations as anyone could recall, horror stories of the underwater panther had pervaded the mystery of Cantul, Michigan, and the people who lived there. 

Cantul was the quintessential sleepy little lake town. The people who lived there enjoyed the quiet and generally laid back life that the town afforded them. Most of the economy was bolstered by the year round visitors who came to enjoy pristine lake life to the fullest. 

Almost as if on a ten year cue, a local man hiking a lake trail had not returned home to his family. The search for Randy Kirsch didn’t take long, even though the body wasn’t found. A smear of a blood track was found along a popular trail leading down to the lake. Uncanny as it was, the residents of Cantul called an end to the search, consoled the family, and headed to their homes to mourn, and secretly thankful they were still alive.

Outsiders might say the people simply swept these incidents under the rug. The people of Cantul might say it was best to just let sleeping dogs lie. But every time there was a new occurrence, some curious newcomer would pick up the rug and poke the dog. The disappearance of Randy Kirsch was no exception.

Harding Steele had lived in Cantul for three months, moving into the area to retire after serving in the United States Navy. He had once seen the town name in a travel magazine describing it as one of the quietest and friendliest lake towns to visit. Some in town thought it odd that a Navy man would move away from the big water settling for just a puddle drop, as the lake must have seemed after so many years on the world’s oceans and seas. 

To Harding, though, the lake was just enough water that he could keep his toes wet but not lose himself to the water. Over twenty-three years, he had lost a lot to the water. As a Navy Special Operations Chief, he had seen more than his share of the worst in the world. One did not inflict pain upon another human without carrying some internal scars with you. He had no regrets, but that time was over, relegated to a stack of photos, a box of medals, and a Thunderbird tattoo on his right bicep. His lake cabin was to be the haven from the bigger world out there.

When the call first went out to search for Randy Kirsch, Harding had been eating an early supper at the Lakeview Cafe. Making sure he was well prepared for what might be a long search, he quickly drove to his cabin outside of town to gather some essentials which he stowed in a backpack. When he returned to town, he was dismayed to learn that the search was over although no one had found Randy.

After some inquiries at the cafe, Harding found that the answers he received just led to more questions. His dismay was soon overshadowed from the indifferent ending, to what was to him still a man missing. An out of place chuckle from a wizened old man sitting near Harding drew him over

 “Mishibizhiw,” the old man began, “a legend of Ojibwa people that is in fact less legend and more reality.”

Harding pulled out the chair next to the man and sat down. “I still don’t understand why a man is missing and no one is out looking for him.”

“Mishibizhiw, or as most refer to it, the underwater panther. The creature with the horns of a deer, covered in snake scales, and the body of a mountain lion. It is a force of nature.” The man put out his hand for Harding to shake. “Name’s Augustus. Most just call me Gus. Lived here in Cantul for all 83 years of my life. As bad as you may think of us, after one of these events, those of us still here are just thankful to be still on the right side of the grass. Or in this case the right side of the waves.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” Harding countered.

Another chuckle from Gus. “No, but it does make us left. That doesn’t make us bad people. No one wants this. To see our family and friends ripped from us… No, we are mournful but we have accepted the inevitable.”

“I know about loss. I have endured more than a lifetime of it. I have watched my brothers-in-arms blown apart, seen them bleed out, witnessed them sacrifice their own lives for the greater good.” Harding pushed back and rose from the table. “No sir, I don’t believe this creature, if it is real, is how men’s fates are to be sealed.”

“Maybe you are correct. Maybe you are who the spirits have sent us to end this misery. My family is Ojibwa and my father would tell me all of the tales.” Gus pointed at the tattoo on Harding’s arm.

Harding followed his gaze, “This? On my team, Thunderbird was my call sign.”

Gus continued, “In the Ojibwe myths, Nanabozho created the thunderbird for the purpose of fighting the underwater spirits.”

The story dribbled from the old man like drops of rain and Harding soaked them up like the parched ground. Rain feeds the earth and this story nourished Harding’s sense of purpose.

Now a half hour later Harding sat, still engulfed by what he had heard, behind the steering wheel of his Jeep as he drove. For whatever reason, he believed the supernatural story. Maybe it was the only thing plausible enough to believe when an entire town would give up searching for one of their own after finding a blood trail leading into the lake. Not even the family, he had discovered, asked for someone to recover the body from the lake. To everyone it was done, and it was over.

Harding, instead of driving home, drove to where the last trace of Randy had been found. The long summer days would give him another hour of light and he felt a compulsion to see the area. It wasn’t the death that drew him. No, Harding had had enough experience with death not to be enticed by the appeal others found in it. It was the callous attitude of what had happened. A man was dead, or presumed dead, and that was tolerable. It was ok, it was expected, and it was unchangeable.

Harding wasn’t from this town and his reasoning couldn’t casually write off what had occurred. When the old man had finished the story back in town he sensed that Harding was unresolved with the matter and warned him to let it go, to let sleeping Mishibizhiws lie. He chuckled, stood, and walked away.

Harding pulled into the gravel lot that marked the beginning of the trailhead. Getting out of the Jeep, he pulled from his backpack a Barracuda underwater torchlight and slipped it into the cargo pocket of his shorts. From the bag he also pulled his MK3 US Navy Dive Knife and slipped it onto his belt. As he secured the sheaths cord to his thigh, his mind drifted back to a pool of memories with the knife. Over the years he had taken care of the knife and the knife had served him well.

Setting off down the trail it didn’t take long for Harding to find the spot where the search had ended. It was just as described. What was clearly the drag mark of a man interspersed with dried blood spots blemished the ground. Heat swelled up his spine. For all his years, Harding had fought for a difference, but now he felt smothered by indifference.

He sensed the combat slip, an unchecking of emotion. He could not abide the evilness of the status quo. His shoes were off, his shirt was off, torchlight strapped to his left hand, and he was in the water. Diving, to Harding, was the same as breathing. It was an extension of him. Down he kicked. 

The water was murky, but Harding was honed by the water. Where sight was limited, clairvoyance arose. The story was true. There was no lie in what the old man had said. Before him as if a Rorschach Test had been pantomimed to life, mud blobs detached from the lake bed and swirled in the water. The flashlight beam swept through the water. The creature was there. A shimmer stirred in the water, the reflection of scale and violence. 

Harding’s mind and body were configured to fight mode, the option of flight had been driven from him years ago in the mountains of Afghanistan and in the water off The Horn of Africa. The creature torpedoed through the water heading left of Harding as if to assess this new interloper in his home. Harding’s knife was now drawn and ready in his right hand. The feel of it there was reassuring.

Breathing conditioning gave him the confidence to know he could hold his breath underwater for almost three minutes. Unfortunately though, that conditioning didn’t account for being in for the fight of his life while doing it. Harding knew he was only a hundred yards from the shoreline and began his kick upward and in its direction.

He sensed the creature was bearing down on him. Taking the flashlight off he released it into the water to trail off behind him hoping it would give him a few seconds of distraction. If he wanted to win this conflict his only chance was to bring this apex predator out of its element in the water. Over his years fighting for his country he had always been the killer in the water, but now he was simply overmatched and he knew it.

Harding’s head broke the surface and he drew in air to sustain him. He assessed his surroundings and began swimming for the closest piece of shoreline. He lost all awareness of where the Mishibizhiw was and tamped down any panic that might arise. One constant he knew in any fight was to keep your wits about you.

The shoreline was closing in and Harding could see that he was close enough to stand up and be above the water line. Feet down, he stepped in a few strides and spun around in a stance to greet his attacker. Harding began backing his way to the shoreline, knife poised to strike, body tense to reflex to a call of action, and mind taking in every detail of his surroundings.

He felt the change in the waters lapping toward the shore an instant before the geyser of water exploded to his left. The panther had swam in silence and found its footing in the shallow water and lunged at Harding. He recoiled back but his opponent was too fast. His entire body was jarred as if he were hit by a semi truck. His side gashed open by the razor sharp claws.

Harding cartwheeled back out toward the deeper water. The creature had knowingly blocked his escape. Treading the water he moved in a few steps until he could touch again. Now though, just his head was above the water. He stared forward at his fate. 

The creature looked back at Harding and he felt its gaze piercing his soul. Harding had swum to death's door many times, but he began to fear he would swim no more after this encounter. He was outmatched. The only option open to him was an unconventional one. He turned and dove back into deeper water. Immediately, he knew he was being pursued. The Mishibizhiw flashed past him and arced back to come at him from the front. Harding analyzed this detail and realized it was a head on fighter.

He had been underwater for less than a minute. He needed to win and he needed to win fast. The creature swam in on him, mouth open ready to rend flesh from bone. The legs propelled the panther and were not an attacking source in the water. That is why it wanted to meet its prey head on. 

Harding had seconds to plan but that is all he would need. As the predator closed on him he kicked upward. The Mishibizhiw tried to alter its path but Harding had timed it just right. As the monster glided under him he reached down and snagged one of the antlers using the momentum to deposit him on the panther’s back. Not wasting time he drove home the knife into the base of the neck.

The Mishibizhiw recoiled violently and the thrashing launched Harding from the creature with the knife still embedded. He swam hard for the shore. Exhausted, he drug his body into the shallows near the rocky shoreline. 

Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. 

Harding propped himself up on his elbows. His relief washed away when he saw the panther staggering toward him. Pain racked its body, but hatred still pumped the blood through its heart.

Fangs sank into Harding’s calf and began to languidly pull his exhausted body back into the lake. A twanging sound and then a flash over his body and Harding watched in surprise as an arrow appeared to blossom from the scales on the beast’s neck. Released from the death grip, Harding rolled away and looked back.

Behind him, already nocking his next arrow, stood Augustus. The old man stood ramrod straight as he sent another missile flying into the Mishibizhiw. Harding tried to stand but immediately collapsed under the weakness of the mauled and probably broken leg.

The Mishibizhiw knew its survival depended on escape and turned and began to claw its way back into the lake. Augustus began to yell and motion for Harding to come into the shore. 

He couldn’t. 

Harding’s fight wasn’t over. For years he had fought to keep men and women free. Free from tyranny. Free from brutality. Free to live their lives in safety. Hand over hand he clawed at the lake bed until he was deep enough to dive down. There ahead of him the wounded animal swam for the depths. 

Harding caught up to it in several hard strokes. Unaware that its one-time prey had closed in, the panther only registered the danger as it felt the searing pain of the knife slip out. Harding clutched at the knife as he slashed it across the beast's throat. Panic, an emotion unknown to the creature, overcame it. Its long baleful existence flickered out.

The Mishibizhiw sank and was drawn deeper into the lake. Harding felt an invisible force pulling him along with the creature. Maybe the spirit of the legend was extracting its final retribution. A jerk from the opposite direction halted his slide as he felt a grip solidify on his arm and began tugging through the water away from the pull of the lake.