The Legend of Black Lake

By Ginny Powers

Eight years ago, Donnie Davis' world was ripped apart on his sixth birthdayothe day his mother was killed in Black Lake. His subconscious mind refuses to unlock the terrible events that took place that day and he fears he's the one responsible for her death. His father swears Donnie was miles away when tragedy struck. But what his father swears doesn't match the nightmare that plagues Donnie.
That same summer, the sacred burial ground of the Pictaw tribe lay in jeopardy of being desecrated. Business entrepreneurs bought land near the great burial rock with plans to build a resort on the lake. The government refused to stop these men, so the Pictaw chief brought to life the legend of Black Lake. Ne-mu-te, the vicious, sly water spirit once again swam the dark waters. Wasis, the white wolf, keeper of souls, roamed the forest.
Now, eight years later, Donnie's quest to find the truth about his mother's death threatens to expose the only weapon Crooked Duck, the Pictaw Indian chief, possesses that can stop the destruction of the Pictaw sacred burial ground.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469126708

Ginny Powers

n/a

Book preview

PROLOGUE

A YOUNG DOE crashed out of a forest thicket and plunged headlong into the lake. A strong, musky odor betrayed her panic as she fought the shallow weeds and muddy bottom to reach deeper water. Twenty feet up-shore another heavy splash startled the quiet.

Her rapid strokes relaxed once in deeper water, and she fell into a rhythmic pace, following a pale moonlight path across the black water. She swam easily. This was not her first trip across the lake. Cold rippling water caressed her sleek body and a cool breeze skimmed along the water’s surface, carrying with it familiar scents of the lake and the surrounding forest. Her destination was a dark cove nestled beside a high limestone cliff.

As she neared the cove, a low, muffled rumble echoed off the cliff and reverberated through the water. The doe’s ears flipped forward. Slowing her pace, she searched the darkened shore. On a hill above the cove, a dim light flickered from a window of a crumbling, gray, stone building. The structure towered above the red cedars like a sleepy one-eyed giant. The building was familiar. The doe snorted and swam toward shore.

Entering the dark cove, she quickened her pace. The lake bottom was sandy and weedless here, rising up gradually to meet a narrow beach. The doe waded ashore, her head drooping, her legs quivering from the long strenuous swim. She took a step toward the protection of the forest, but halted. Her head shot up. Her ears pricked forward. She sniffed at the air and snorted. Abruptly, she leaped away from the forest and plunged back into the cold, black water. Her legs churned, frantically carrying her back the way she came.

The water erupted.

Razor-sharp teeth tore at her. Ripped at her. Yanked her under. She thrashed to the surface, her eyes wide with terror. Razor-sharp teeth ripped deeper. She swerved toward shore, fighting to get away from the agony, but was jerked under, yanked into deeper water. The teeth snatched at her churning legs, ripped at her soft underbelly. She fought to the surface, snorting, gasping for air. Foaming red water engulfed her as her futile efforts to evade her attacker failed.

The doe sank, a final time, as the frenzied mass of teeth pursued her limp body to the bottom of the lake. Pieces of her once-beautiful, fawn-colored coat floated slowly to the surface.

Moments later, the dim, flickering light in the crumbling, stone building vanished.

CHAPTER 1

IT WASN’T LIKE somebody said, This summer is going to be the pits. I just sensed it deep in my bones—a premonition fed by a disturbing dream that dogged me like a shadow for the last nine months. It felt like a piece of my brain had broken off and was floating around in my head, waiting to explode. And when it exploded, I wasn’t sure I’d survive.

One thing for sure, I wasn’t going to sit around and wait for the Big Bang. The only place I wanted to be right now was here, at Black Lake with my sister and father, my dog, and my best buddy, Rob Evans. Summer vacation in a cabin on a lake, hanging out with Rob, chasing girls, boating, swimming, fishing, campfires. What could be better?

School was out. I’d been promoted—with-honors, a freshman at Adams High School, and I made the swim team. My life was set. At least for the next four years. But I couldn’t shake the yucky stomach-roll that always showed up before a big swim meet, or when I gave a report in front of class. Now, it stuck to me like a bad habit.

We just arrived at our summer cabin in Echo, Minnesota. I slammed the back latch on the SUV and called for my dog. He’s an eight-year-old black lab—the last gift I got from Mom.

Lancelot, come. He raced around the corner of the cabin, yipped a hello and pranced around me. I held out my hand. Cool it, boy, and walked down the gravel drive. Lance heeled but wasn’t happy.

I set the fishing poles and tackle box on the cabin steps thinking I would jog down to the dock and check out the lake when my sister hurtled out of the cabin, jumped off the porch and jerked my sleeve. Race you to the dock! and sprinted across the sloping grass commons. Erica was halfway there by the time I got in gear.

I signaled for Lance. C’mon, boy. He yipped and raced after Erica. I quickly closed her head start, but she beat me to the dock. Lance pranced and jumped until I picked up a stick and threw it into the rippling lake. He leaped into the water, swam out, grabbed the stick and paddled back to shore. A breeze carried the smell of freshly cut grass mixed with the musty fishiness of the lake. I was home in the wilds of Minnesota.

Erica skipped off the dock. You are too late, slowpoke. She pointed with her thumb toward the dock. Been there, done that. She laughed, punched me lightly on the arm and skipped toward the tire swing.

I smirked at her cooler-than-you attitude. This would be a good time to mess with her mind. You just don’t get it, do you, sis?

Erica stopped and gave me a quizzical look. Get what?

I let you win so I don’t have to watch.

Ha! You hate to lose. Her dark eyebrows scrunched together. Watch what?

Watch you have a temper tantrum like a little baby. I grinned and dodged the stone she threw at me. See? Temper. Temper.

Laughing, I hopped onto the dock and trotted to the end, no longer listening to my twelve-year-old sister’s tantrum. A school of minnows darted away from under the creaky boards and disappeared into the abundant lake weeds. I dropped down on a knee to check the water temperature: cold but definitely swimable. By the end of June the water temp would be perfect for swimming and fishing, and the weeds would be pointing their irritating heads above the water line, dense, green, and slippery. But I couldn’t complain. Those weeds were what made fishing so great. Dad would enlist my expertise at wading around the dock with a scythe to thin the weeds. One of my most unfavorite jobs.

I’d already decided that when I graduated from high school I’d move up here and go to college. Home sweet home. I took a deep breath and raised my arms over my head. This is it, Lance.

I turned just as Lance’s wet paws landed on my shoulders. I lost my balance, and the last thing I saw before the lake closed over my head was the stick in Lance’s drooling mouth.

I came up sputtering. Lance—, and lunged for the silly mutt. Lance barked and paddled just out of reach. Tangled in the weeds, I tried to get my footing in the cold, waist-deep water. My gym shoe finally lodged against something hard and I used it as leverage to gain my balance.

Erica leaned on a dock piling, giggling. Donnie, don’t you dare get mad at Lance. You taught him to jump on you like that.

I splashed water at my stupid sister, embarrassed that she saw my klutz move of the day, as Rob would call it. Go away!

I gave Erica the evil eye, and saw her eyes widen. She stared at the water behind me and pointed. I shook my dripping head. If she thinks I’m going to fall for that trick . . . I felt something touch my bare leg and grinned.

Lance, you dumb mutt. I reached out expecting my dog’s wet nose, but that’s not what I touched. Slowly rising to the surface was a large, brown, shapeless mass.

What in the— I took a quick step backward. My gym shoe hit something hard again that must have dislodged the mysterious mass. A bloated body floated lazily to the surface, shreds of fawn-colored fur dangled from a half-exposed skull. An empty eye socket stared vacantly at me

Yuk, a dead animal!

I took two giant steps toward the dock. The muddy lake bottom sucked at my water-logged shoes. Weeds tangled fiercely around my legs. For a split second I thought the lake had hands, snatching at me. I lunged at the dock, caught hold of a piling, and scrambled onto the dock.

I didn’t realize that Erica had helped me out until I sat up and turned to take another look at the floating carcass and choked. Erica had a strangle hold on the neck of my tee-shirt.

I swatted at her hand, Let go, Erica, and tried to pry her hands off my shirt, but they were set like concrete. The closer the carcass floated, the tighter she squeezed. Batting frantically at her hands, I shifted to my knees. Her hands suddenly went slack. She whispered, It almost got you, Donnie. It almost got you!

I struggled to my feet, scowling and rubbing my aching neck. That’s not what almost got me. That thing’s harmless compared to you.

What is it? she whispered.

A deer, said a deep, raspy voice behind us.

Erica and I jumped. Standing behind us was a short, stout, gray-haired man leaning on a walking stick. His bright green shorts came down past his knees and peeked out from under the canary yellow shirt hem by three inches. Black socks and black tie shoes finished his appearance.

Mr. York! Erica cried. She ran to him and gave him a hug. You scared us.

He returned her hug. That was ruddy thoughtless of me, child. he said, exaggerating his British accent. Erica laughed.

Is that really a deer, Mr. York? I asked.

Yes, child. At one time a living, beautiful, aggravating creature. Mr. York shook his head as he watched the carcass bob lazily with the current. A shameful waste, that’s what it is.

It looks like it was torn to pieces, Erica said. What kind of animal would do that to a deer?

Mr. York’s eyes narrowed. What kind of animal, indeed. The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted him. Dad ducked to miss a sagging sycamore limb as he walked toward the end of the dock.

Erica yelled, Dad, look what Donnie kicked loose from the bottom of the lake.

Dad’s smile disappeared when he saw what I kicked loose. How did that happen, Mr. York?

If I knew, I’d certainly put a nip in it. This is the tenth large animal killed in the last two months. Floating around like they own the confounded lake. And they all look like this.

Has Sam or Doc Cook examined them?

Of course they have, but they’re as tight-lipped as a priest in confession. Sam says he’s under strict orders from the DNR to keep his mouth shut. Doing a ruddy good job of that while these nasty dead bodies turn up in the oddest places. And not just deer. Geese, racoons, dogs. Anything that swims in Black Lake. Dreadfully bad for business. No one will want to rent these cabins if all they see are dead animals floating about. That’s why I’m glad you’ve finally arrived. You and Doc Cook have always been good friends, and doctors talk to doctors.

Dad chuckled. We’re friends, but biological science has little to do with veterinary medicine.

Did I say it did? I’m not a silly fool, Steve. This could ruin me. Happened like this once before. You were here with— He stopped and glanced at me.

I stopped pulling my soaked shoes and socks off and listened more intently. Was Mr. York talking about the summer Mom died? No one talked about that in front of me.

Mr. York stammered, Well, uh, you know what I’m talking about. Those confounded foreigners wanted to build a monstrous condominium complex and boat marina over by the chemical factory.

Dad shook his head and gave a wan smile. They weren’t foreigners, Mr. York. They were from Toronto.

Weren’t locals either, so they were foreigners. By the time we caught on to their scheming shenanigans they’d bought up everything but access to the lake. Almost got it, too, but Sam stopped them. Mr. York chuckled. That Sam’s one sharp Indian.

I watched Dad’s mouth tighten. He knew Mr. York didn’t mean anything by that remark, but Mom’s heritage had always been Dad’s protective button. Some of the kids at school called her a half-breed, but she was more Indian than White. Grandpa LaBec was French, but Grandma was pure Pictaw and made sure that Mom remembered her heritage.

Mr. York continued. The access would have taken them right across a corner of the Pictaw burial ground. Sam boiled like a teapot. Said those scavengers wouldn’t stop with just a corner. Had some strange happenings after that, but the worst was—

Dad interrupted. Yes, Mr. York, I know the worst.

Oh, yes, of course. Mr. York’s puffy face reddened as he glanced at me again. Of course. Those, uh, two men disappeared. Never found them. Same year as your unfortunate… Mr. York yanked a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. Surveyors, they were.

He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and gave me another sorrowful glance. Well, those foreigners are back, and it’s starting again. The same way. First, those wretched dead animals… We need to stop this, Steve, before it gets worse.

My stomach took a rollercoaster ride. Dad cut Mr. York off like he was going to spill a deep, dark secret. And then Mr. York gives me a sorry look like I’m the saddest human speciman he’s ever seen.

I picked up my shoes and dripping socks and walked off the dock with Lance, leaving Dad and Mr. York in conversation. I tossed my socks over the hull of an aluminum boat that laid upside down near the shore and walked toward the cabin.

My mind drifted to the dream that started last year. It was our first summer back here since Mom died. I thought I’d hate it—coming back to where Mom died—but that didn’t happen. It was like I’d come home.

It had been eight years. My sixth birthday. Our family doctor said the dream was delayed grief, like a shock wave after an earthquake. Dad told me the dream meant nothing. You weren’t there when it happened, son. That dream will gradually go away.

I knew better. Mom told me once, "Dreams are a path to the truth that lies hidden deep within." What I couldn’t understand was why this dream took so long to surface. The dream meant something. Something painful. And I had to find out what.

CHAPTER 2

DAD CALLED TO us, C’mon, kids, time to launch the boat.

Erica and I raced toward the truck. First dibs on the front seat, Erica yelled.

Not if I beat you to it, I yelled back and promptly tangled with Lance. Watch out, boy. Lance raced off toward the SUV. I was left breathing their dust.

Erica grabbed the front door handle. "Ha! You can sit in the back with Lance and let him slobber on you."

Big deal, I growled. I would have won, but Lance got in my way. Wouldn’t I? I stooped down and ruffled my dog’s ears. Lance licked my face.

Erica bounced into the front seat. And maybe not.

Dad slid under the wheel. Settle down, please.

That meant no talking, which was fine with me. My sister talked too much, anyway. And that yuck feeling was back, swirling like a mini tornado in my stomach.

Ten minutes later, we pulled into the gravel parking lot of a white, low-slung building that sat off the main highway: the Black River Cheese Factory. Dad drove around to the back of the building where a wide blacktopped area sloped down to meet a steep, narrow, concrete boat ramp. Stone walls on either side of the ramp opened into Black River, a slow-moving shallow river that matched its name. The water looked black, but you could easily see the bottom.

Dad maneuvered the boat into position and then gave me one of those looks like he couldn’t decide whether I should be grounded or congratulated. He finally made up his mind and said, Donnie, why don’t you drive the boat back to our dock?

I about jumped out of my skin. My first solo boat ride. Dad finally realized I was becoming a man. Well, maybe not a man, but I was old enough to be on my own—for a few minutes. I quickly tamped down my excitement and settled back in my seat like driving solo was expected. Yeah, that’d be cool. Thanks, Dad.

Erica bounced in the front seat. Can I go too?

I glared at her. No way. By myself—just me and Lance.

Dad patted Erica’s head. We’ll let Donnie do this by himself.

He turned in his seat and gave me a serious look. Mr. York said to drive carefully and watch for submerged objects in the river and the lake. They’ve had a few boat accidents around here lately that damaged the hulls, and they can’t seem to come up with a cause.

No problem. So what if Dad couldn’t resist warning me about something. Rob said it was an adult psychological thing. They warn you, and if something does happen, they can say, I told you so.

I chuckled