Season THREE – Episode 19 – “Test of Silence”

Under the awning at Tremblay’s General Store—rain returned to Lac des Bois.

“Um, excuse me Tawny,” Professor Scale stepped forward, extending a hand, accepting the reality that his partner was frozen like a popsicle in the deepfreeze of a Whirlpool freezer. “We are looking for some much-needed assistance at our camp and your name came highly recommended from both Minnie Maple and her husband Rod Gills at the marina.”

          “Well, I appreciate their recommendation, but I’m not looking to get back into camp work. Kinda been there done that. Used to have a great gig going, but the guide days at Little Narrows Island turned more into camp work, and that’s honestly something I’m not interested in doing.”

          “What if we guaranteed you 80-paid-guide-days this season, regardless of whether we produce the dates or not?” spoke a melting Bomb Pop (Rusty). “And as far as camp work—yes—but more so we need advice on how to shape the camp with your local expertise.

The following “Test of Silence” was unnerving. Rusty had laid his proverbial cards on the table. He’d made his case—short of begging—pushing for sincerity.

Tic toc… There was ONE of Rusty’s five minutes left on Tawny’s clock.

Then she spoke, “Geez, I’m not sure fellas, I was loyal to Jack Thorton for almost fifteen years. I started guiding with his outfit when I was fourteen years old. Told myself after I left, I’d be hard pressed to return.”

          “Can you at least think about it for a day?” asserted Rusty—while Cosmoid took his turn in the freezer department, not a deer in headlights, more like half a beef hanging on a meat hook—he hadn’t expected Rusty to throw down a paid guarantee without even a whispered strategy session—even though she was the reputed Fish Whisperer.

“I’ll get back to you. 24-hours,” then she walked from under the awning and disappeared into smoke-laced raindrops.

It was practically dark by the time Rusty and Cos returned to camp. After leaving the mainland they continued their search for “Hooked on Poutine”. Too embarrassed to ask for assistance, who wants to tell the entire neighborhood you lost your own passenger boat—they unsuccessfully searched miles and miles of island shorelines to once again come up empty.

          “I’ll get a fire going in the lodge,” Cos mentioned to Rusty as they glided the camp skiff into a dock slip. “Maybe you could grab some burgers and brats from the boathouse? And you’d better check to see what Link’s up to. I didn’t see him when we pulled into the harbor.

Dogs clearly make more sense than most. Link had arranged himself as a permanent (and dry) fixture inside the squirrels’ cabana throughout the dreary rain filled day. They didn’t seem to mind. No incessant “honk-honk-honk-honk” all day long, like the geese. He snoozed quietly—British Lab manners—curiously observant of squirrel life.

“What is this, night three?” Rusty thought to himself, post supper, lights out, snuggled with Link on the couch in the lodge. Amidst the steady downpour his thoughts raced: Hows’ Sally…where’s Sally…I miss Sally…Is Sally missing me…I could use Sally’s help… No, I should be doing this on my own…But then I push to meet with Tawny Bishop…

And continued to race: Ellie would have been good at running this camp…How’s Ellie…Still at the Gold Rope Ranch in Montana… She saved my life… So did Sally… Whose life has Tawny saved…

And continued to race: Tawny is next level… For sure Ellie level… MAY BE higher than Sally level… Should I be medicated… Nine days until our first guests arrive… God created the earth and heavens in less…………………… And he obviously created Tawny…

And continued to race:  Jet black hair… Smooth… Shoreline stones polished by water…  I definitely need to get medicated… Straight full-length strands… Sways like a dark waterfall… Subtle—Natural—Graceful… Dangerous are women.

A boat horn sounded off three times in succession—“Hooked on Poutine” had returned to her port, dreamed Rusty. Long echoing blasts were rolling across Lac des Bois like clamorous thunder through a hollowed out First Nations dance drum.

The first blast was a steady, low moan that woke the shoreline of FSFO—Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters.

The second boom rang with urgency, someone or something was coming, noise bouncing off pine trunks and pushing majestic loons to flight. Nature was being alerted.

The third and final roar—considerably longer than the two prior—was a warning shot fired like a message with bullet speed. Its purpose was clear: I am coming for you, ready or not.

From the couch in the lodge, Rusty raised his head to a hand and anchored it with an elbow. Outside, parked at the end of the pier was “Hooked on Poutine”. Professor Cosmoid Scale and TAWNY BISHOP were securing her bow and aft lines to the dock.

No fish tale—The Whisperer had indeed arrived. Rusty set Link to the hardwood floor, rubbed his eyes one more time to confirm this was truly NOT a dream, and then stood to greet the day. “Should be a dandy!” he thought to himself.

Secured across the gunnels of “Hooked on Poutine” was a battered cedar-strip canoe. One that Rusty assumed Tawny had used to paddle her way through the islands in the predawn darkness, on her way to leisurely “no GPS needed” locate and resecure their passenger boat and then show up at their camp “no-big-whoop” returning her safety no worse for the wear.

“Who is this—WOMAN! And why does she appear drop dead gorgeous in a weathered Simms fishing cap?!—Maybe I should be wishing it were a dream,” Rusty thought momentarily.

Then, without further hesitation—he gave a congratulatory slap on the back to Cos—continued down the dock toward Tawny and held out his arms full length—offering an unsolicited hug of thanks.

“Too early for embraces,” considered Cosmoid in silence. “He may have just struck a match to the greatest forest fire NW Ontario has ever seen.”

Two hundred meters below the surface of the Southern Ocean off the south tip of Australia—the Blackfin Phantom with its espionage passengers onboard were also being approached for a “HUG”.

There was an eerie creak. Not the normal creak of a healthy submarine underwater. Positioned at battle stations EAGLE One-Two-Three strained through cupped listening devices as the sub reduced speed, allowing its pursuer to come within close proximity. This tactic was perfected countless times by Admiral Horace Barnacle, but ultimately, this was feeling quite different.

          “It doesn’t sound like a submarine,” Sally whispered (lots of whispering going on today) to Ellie. “Not mechanical. More creaturelike.”

“Whatever it is… This monitor is red lined. It’s gaining on us at 661 nautical miles per hour. That’s Mach one! I hope to hell this Barnacle knows what he’s doing.”

          “Stirring a martini, by the looks of it. I thought we were putting martini hour on hold?”

“I don’t know if we can trust this guy, Sal.”

Hazel Brown’s left eye began to twitch. There was a “Test of Silence” taking place 109.36 fathoms below sea. Staring at the sonar, a massive, unidentifiable shape was now circling them.

–To Be Continued—