lifted her
foot to look, there was a dandy-looking dent in the bark, although
she hadn’t holed it yet.
Don’t break it, said her belly. I’m warning you, Janie . . .
And to make its point, Janie’s stomach spewed a little acid, and
some of the lichen that wasn’t digested yet along with it, in a thin
stream back up her throat.
“Yech!” Janie spat and swallowed and did it again and again
until the taste was nearly gone. But her throat still burned when she
stopped, and she felt all out of breath.
“Goddamn stomach,” she said — daring it to try it again. Nothing
happened, though; if Ernie didn’t like swear-words, her belly didn’t
seem to mind.
Janie looked at the canoe and stepped back from it. Ernie’d
always said she could use some self-discipline. She wondered if this
was what he’d meant.
Janie turned away from the lake — she didn’t feel as much like
making mischief on the canoe anyhow. She went up the steps to the
lodge, and as she went, she wondered just who it was who’d bring
that canoe. Could have been the funny man, but he was a dream-thing, and that canoe was pretty real, so it probably wasn’t the
funny man.
Janie’d just started to wonder if maybe the owner of that canoe
wasn’t hiding up in the lodge waiting for her, thinking to do her some mischief, when she heard the shaking. It sounded like the
wind had sounded outside when she woke up — like the bone rattle
where it shook the eaves on the outside, with a crack! when it broke
something and a bong! when it knocked down a drum.
But now, she was on the outside. And it sounded like the wind
was on the inside. “Isn’t that something?” she said, and hurried up
the weather-worn steps to the front of the lodge.
She peered in through the big front window, and sure enough,
that seemed to be what was happening. There was a fierce Georgian
Bay blow whirling around the rooms of the lodge. As she watched,
maybe three paperback novels bounced off the window as the
wind drove them across the room. Some of the pages of the story
magazine Janie’d been looking at were stuck to the window, and if
they weren’t all upside down she might have read them. Mr. Swayze
had a little iron hanging light, and it was swaying back and forth in
the breeze — occasionally swinging so high that the side of it hit the
ceiling with a thunk! noise.
Janie pressed her ear to the glass. Oh, it was cold! Seemed like the
wind had taken all the cold it’d brought with it outside, and moved
it inside. As she listened, she could hear the yowl it’d brought with it
too. And she could hear something else. It sounded like —
— a chopping.
Janie closed her eyes, and caught the rhythm. Thunk! Then a
moment while the axe-head pulled out of whatever it was cutting.
Then thunk! again. And the same all over. It was just like Ernie
would get, when he was cutting wood for the stove.
“Yep,” she said. “Someone’s chopping.”
Then there came a crack! and Janie jumped back and held her
ear. She hadn’t been looking, and it had taken her by surprise.
Something had hit the glass hard, hard enough to crack it. She
glared at the glass, and the little spider-web of cracks in it. Something
else hit the glass, in the same spot, and the cracks spread.
It was one of Mr. Swayze’s books. BOTTOM OF THE WELL — the
back cover, the part that contained a little summary of the story
and what the Philadelphia Enquirer had said about THE HAND —
“First-class chills! Hookerman writes like he’s lived it!” — and what Publisher’s Weekly had said about THE CLOUD — “Richly detailed
and un-put-downable!”
Janie giggled. It was like the wind inside was showing it to her —
like it’d hit the glass once to get her attention, then put this here for
her to read it.
The glass shook a bit under the pressure, and Janie could hear
it moan as the cracks spread further. Janie read the summary, out
loud: “When . . . they dug for . . . water, they didn’t expect .
foot to look, there was a dandy-looking dent in the bark, although
she hadn’t holed it yet.
Don’t break it, said her belly. I’m warning you, Janie . . .
And to make its point, Janie’s stomach spewed a little acid, and
some of the lichen that wasn’t digested yet along with it, in a thin
stream back up her throat.
“Yech!” Janie spat and swallowed and did it again and again
until the taste was nearly gone. But her throat still burned when she
stopped, and she felt all out of breath.
“Goddamn stomach,” she said — daring it to try it again. Nothing
happened, though; if Ernie didn’t like swear-words, her belly didn’t
seem to mind.
Janie looked at the canoe and stepped back from it. Ernie’d
always said she could use some self-discipline. She wondered if this
was what he’d meant.
Janie turned away from the lake — she didn’t feel as much like
making mischief on the canoe anyhow. She went up the steps to the
lodge, and as she went, she wondered just who it was who’d bring
that canoe. Could have been the funny man, but he was a dream-thing, and that canoe was pretty real, so it probably wasn’t the
funny man.
Janie’d just started to wonder if maybe the owner of that canoe
wasn’t hiding up in the lodge waiting for her, thinking to do her some mischief, when she heard the shaking. It sounded like the
wind had sounded outside when she woke up — like the bone rattle
where it shook the eaves on the outside, with a crack! when it broke
something and a bong! when it knocked down a drum.
But now, she was on the outside. And it sounded like the wind
was on the inside. “Isn’t that something?” she said, and hurried up
the weather-worn steps to the front of the lodge.
She peered in through the big front window, and sure enough,
that seemed to be what was happening. There was a fierce Georgian
Bay blow whirling around the rooms of the lodge. As she watched,
maybe three paperback novels bounced off the window as the
wind drove them across the room. Some of the pages of the story
magazine Janie’d been looking at were stuck to the window, and if
they weren’t all upside down she might have read them. Mr. Swayze
had a little iron hanging light, and it was swaying back and forth in
the breeze — occasionally swinging so high that the side of it hit the
ceiling with a thunk! noise.
Janie pressed her ear to the glass. Oh, it was cold! Seemed like the
wind had taken all the cold it’d brought with it outside, and moved
it inside. As she listened, she could hear the yowl it’d brought with it
too. And she could hear something else. It sounded like —
— a chopping.
Janie closed her eyes, and caught the rhythm. Thunk! Then a
moment while the axe-head pulled out of whatever it was cutting.
Then thunk! again. And the same all over. It was just like Ernie
would get, when he was cutting wood for the stove.
“Yep,” she said. “Someone’s chopping.”
Then there came a crack! and Janie jumped back and held her
ear. She hadn’t been looking, and it had taken her by surprise.
Something had hit the glass hard, hard enough to crack it. She
glared at the glass, and the little spider-web of cracks in it. Something
else hit the glass, in the same spot, and the cracks spread.
It was one of Mr. Swayze’s books. BOTTOM OF THE WELL — the
back cover, the part that contained a little summary of the story
and what the Philadelphia Enquirer had said about THE HAND —
“First-class chills! Hookerman writes like he’s lived it!” — and what Publisher’s Weekly had said about THE CLOUD — “Richly detailed
and un-put-downable!”
Janie giggled. It was like the wind inside was showing it to her —
like it’d hit the glass once to get her attention, then put this here for
her to read it.
The glass shook a bit under the pressure, and Janie could hear
it moan as the cracks spread further. Janie read the summary, out
loud: “When . . . they dug for . . . water, they didn’t expect .
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