For, in these regions, all names of lakes and hills and islands have their origin in some actual event, taking either the name of a chief participant, such as Smith's Ridge3, or claiming a place in the map by perpetuating4 some special feature of the journey or the scenery, such as Long Island, Deep Rapids, or Rainy Lake.
All names thus have their meaning and are usually pretty recently acquired, while the majority are self-explanatory and suggest human and pioneer relations. Skeleton Lake, therefore, was a name full of suggestion, and though none of us knew the origin or the story of its birth, we all were conscious of a certain lugubrious5 atmosphere that haunted its shores and islands, and but for the evidences of recent moose tracks in its neighbourhood we should probably have pitched our tents elsewhere.
For several hundred miles in any direction we knew of only one other party of whites. They had journeyed up on the train with us, getting in at North Bay, and hailing from Boston way. A common goal and object had served by way of introduction. But the acquaintance had made little progress. This noisy, aggressive Yankee did not suit our fancy much as a possible neighbour, and it was only a slight intimacy6 between his chief guide, Jake the Swede, and one of our men that kept the thing going at all. They went into camp on Beaver7 Creek8, fifty miles and more to the west of us.
But that was six weeks ago, and seemed as many months, for days and nights pass slowly in these solitudes9 and the scale of time changes wonderfully. Our men always seemed to know by instinct pretty well "whar them other fellows was movin'," but in the interval10 no one had come across their trails, or once so much as heard their rifle shots.
Our little camp consisted of the professor, his wife, a splendid shot and keen woods-woman, and myself. We had a guide apiece, and hunted daily in pairs from before sunrise till dark.
It was our last evening in the woods, and the professor was lying in my little wedge tent, discussing the dangers of hunting alone in couples in this way. The flap of the tent hung back and let in fragrant11 odours of cooking over an open wood fire; everywhere there were bustle12 and preparation, and one canoe already lay packed with moose horns, her nose pointing southwards.
"If an accident happened to one of them," he was saying, "the survivor's story when he returned to camp would be entirely13 unsupported evidence, wouldn't it? Because, you see—"
And he went on laying down the law after the manner of professors, until I became so bored that my attention began to wander to pictures and memories of the scenes we were just about to leave: Garden Lake, with its hundred islands; the rapids out of Round Pond; the countless14 vistas15 of forest, crimson16 and gold in the autumn sunshine; and the starlit nights we had spent watching in cold, cramped17 positions for the wary18 moose on lonely lakes among the hills. The hum of the professor's voice in time grew more soothing19. A nod or a grunt20 was all the reply he looked for. Fortunately, he loathed21 interruptions. I think I could almost have gone to sleep under his very nose; perhaps I did sleep for a brief interval.
Then it all came about so quickly, and the tragedy of it was so unexpected and painful, throwing our peaceful camp into momentary22 confusion, that now it all seems to have happened with the uncanny swiftness of a dream.
First, there was the abrupt23 ceasing of the droning voice, and then the running of quick little steps over the pine needles, and the confusion of men's voices; and the next instant the professor's wife was at the tent door, hatless, her face white, her hunting bloomers bagging at the wrong places, a rifle in her hand, and her words running into one another anyhow.
"Quick, Harry24! It's Rushton. I was asleep and it woke me. Something's happened. You must deal with it!"
In a second we were outside the tent with our rifles.
"My God!" I heard the professor exclaim, as if he had first made the discovery. "It is Rushton!"
I saw the guides helping—dragging—a man out of a canoe. A brief space of deep silence followed in which I heard only the waves from the canoe washing up on the sand; and then, immediately after, came the voice of a man talking with amazing rapidity and with odd gaps between his words. It was Rushton telling his story, and the tones of his voice, now whispering, now almost shouting, mixed with sobs25 and solemn oaths and frequent appeals to the Deity26, somehow or other struck the false note at the very start, and before any of us guessed or knew anything at all. Something moved secretly between his words, a shadow veiling the stars, destroying the peace of our little camp, and touching27 us all personally with an undefinable sense of horror and distrust.
I can see that group to this day, with all the detail of a good photograph: standing28 half-way between the firelight and the darkness, a slight mist rising from the lake, the frosty stars, and our men, in silence that was all sympathy, dragging Rushton across the rocks towards the camp fire. Their moccasins crunched29 on the sand and slipped several times on the stones beneath the weight of the limp, exhausted30 body, and I can still see every inch of the pared cedar31 branch he had used for a paddle on that lonely and dreadful journey.
But what struck me most, as it struck us all, was the limp exhaustion32 of his body compared to the strength of his utterance33 and the tearing rush of his words. A vigorous driving-power was there at work, forcing out the tale, red-hot and throbbing34, full of discrepancies35 and the strangest contradictions; and the nature of this driving-power I first began to appreciate when they had lifted him into the circle of firelight and I saw his face, grey under the tan, terror in the eyes, tears too, hair and beard awry36, and listened to the wild stream of words pouring forth37 without ceasing.
I think we all understood then, but it was only after many years that anyone dared to confess what he thought.
There was Matt Morris, my guide; Silver Fizz, whose real name was unknown, and who bore the title of his favourite drink; and huge Hank Milligan—all ears and kind intention; and there was Rushton, pouring out his ready-made tale, with ever-shifting eyes, turning from face to face, seeking confirmation38 of details none had witnessed but himself—and one other.
Silver Fizz was the first to recover from the shock of the thing, and to realise, with the natural sense of chivalry39 common to most genuine back-woodsmen, that the man was at a terrible disadvantage. At any rate, he was the first to start putting the matter to rights.
"Never mind telling it just now," he said in a gruff voice, but with real gentleness; "get a bite t'eat first and then let her go afterwards. Better have a horn of whisky too. It ain't all packed yet, I guess."
"Couldn't eat or drink a thing," cried the other. "Good Lord, don't you see, man, I want to talk to someone first? I want to get it out of me to someone who can answer—answer. I've had nothing but trees to talk with for three days, and I can't carry it alone any longer. Those cursed, silent trees—I've told it 'em a thousand times. Now, just see here, it was this way. When we started out from camp—"
He looked fearfully about him, and we realised it was useless to stop him. The story was bound to come, and come it did.
Now, the story itself was nothing out of the way; such tales are told by the dozen round any camp fire where men who have knocked about in the woods are in the circle. It was the way he told it that made our flesh creep. He was near the truth all along, but he was skimming it, and the skimming took off the cream that might have saved his soul.
Of course, he smothered40 it in words—odd words, too—melodramatic, poetic41, out-of-the-way words that lie just on the edge of frenzy42. Of course, too, he kept asking us each in turn, scanning our faces with those restless, frightened eyes of his, "What would you have done?" "What else could I do?" and "Was that my fault?" But that was nothing, for he was no milk-and-water fellow who dealt in hints and suggestions; he told his story boldly, forcing his conclusions upon us as if we had been so many wax cylinders43 of a phonograph that would repeat accurately44 what had been told us, and these questions I have mentioned he used to emphasise45 any special point that he seemed to think required such emphasis.
The fact was, however, the picture of what had actually happened was so vivid still in his own mind that it reached ours by a process of telepathy which he could not control or prevent. All through his true-false words this picture stood forth in fearful detail against the shadows behind him. He could not veil, much less obliterate46, it. We knew; and, I always thought, he knew that we knew.
The story itself, as I have said, was sufficiently47 ordinary. Jake and himself, in a nine-foot canoe, had upset in the middle of a lake, and had held hands across the upturned craft for several hours, eventually cutting holes in her ribs48 to stick their arms through and grasp hands lest the numbness49 of the cold water should overcome them. They were miles from shore, and the wind was drifting them down upon a little island. But when they got within a few hundred yards of the island, they realised to their horror that they would after all drift past it.
It was then the quarrel began. Jake was for leaving the canoe and swimming. Rushton believed in waiting till they actually had passed the island and were sheltered from the wind. Then they could make the island easily by swimming, canoe and all. But Jake refused to give in, and after a short struggle—Rushton admitted there was a struggle—got free from the canoe—and disappeared without a single cry.
Rushton held on and proved the correctness of his theory, and finally made the island, canoe and all, after being in the water over five hours. He described to us how he crawled up on to the shore, and fainted at once, with his feet lying half in the water; how lost and terrified he felt upon regaining50 consciousness in the dark; how the canoe had drifted away and his extraordinary luck in finding it caught again at the end of the island by a projecting cedar branch. He told us that the little axe—another bit of real luck—had caught in the thwart51 when the canoe turned over, and how the little bottle in his pocket holding the emergency matches was whole and dry. He made a blazing fire and searched the island from end to end, calling upon Jake in the darkness, but getting no answer; till, finally, so many half-drowned men seemed to come crawling out of the water on to the rocks, and vanish among the shadows when he came up with them, that he lost his nerve completely and returned to lie down by the fire till the daylight came.
He then cut a bough52 to replace the lost paddles, and after one more useless search for his lost companion, he got into the canoe, fearing every moment he would upset again, and crossed over to the mainland. He knew roughly the position of our camping place, and after paddling day and night, and making many weary portages, without food or covering, he reached us two days later.
This, more or less, was the story, and we, knowing whereof he spoke53, knew that every word was literally54 true, and at the same time went to the building up of a hideous55 and prodigious56 lie.
Once the recital57 was over, he collapsed58, and Silver Fizz, after a general expression of sympathy from the rest of us, came again to the rescue.
"But now, Mister, you jest got to eat and drink whether you've a mind to, or no."
And Matt Morris, cook that night, soon had the fried trout59 and bacon, and the wheat cakes and hot coffee passing round a rather silent and oppressed circle. So we ate round the fire, ravenously60, as we had eaten every night for the past six weeks, but with this difference: that there was one among us who was more than ravenous—and he gorged61.
In spite of all our devices he somehow kept himself the centre of observation. When his tin mug was empty, Morris instantly passed the tea-pail; when he began to mop up the bacon grease with the dough62 on his fork, Hank reached out for the frying pan; and the can of steaming boiled potatoes was always by his side. And there was another difference as well: he was sick, terribly sick before the meal was over, and this sudden nausea63 after food was more eloquent64 than words of what the man had passed through on his dreadful, foodless, ghost-haunted journey of forty miles to our camp. In the darkness he thought he would go crazy, he said. There were voices in the trees, and figures were always lifting themselves out of the water, or from behind boulders65, to look at him and make awful signs. Jake constantly peered at him through the underbrush, and everywhere the shadows were moving, with eyes, footsteps, and following shapes.
We tried hard to talk of other things, but it was no use, for he was bursting with the rehearsal66 of his story and refused to allow himself the chances we were so willing and anxious to grant him. After a good night's rest he might have had more self-control and better judgment67, and would probably have acted differently. But, as it was, we found it impossible to help him.
Once the pipes were lit, and the dishes cleared away, it was useless to pretend any longer. The sparks from the burning logs zigzagged68 upwards69 into a sky brilliant with stars. It was all wonderfully still and peaceful, and the forest odours floated to us on the sharp autumn air. The cedar fire smelt70 sweet and we could just hear the gentle wash of tiny waves along the shore. All was calm, beautiful, and remote from the world of men and passion. It was, indeed, a night to touch the soul, and yet, I think, none of us heeded71 these things. A bull-moose might almost have thrust his great head over our shoulders and have escaped unnoticed. The death of Jake the Swede, with its sinister72 setting, was the real presence that held the centre of the stage and compelled attention.
"You won't p'raps care to come along, Mister," said Morris, by way of a beginning; "but I guess I'll go with one of the boys here and have a hunt for it."
"Sure," said Hank. "Jake an' I done some biggish trips together in the old days, and I'll do that much for'm."
"It's deep water, they tell me, round them islands," added Silver Fizz; "but we'll find it, sure pop,—if it's thar."
They all spoke of the body as "it."
There was a minute or two of heavy silence, and then Rushton again burst out with his story in almost the identical words he had used before. It was almost as if he had learned it by heart. He wholly failed to appreciate the efforts of the others to let him off.
Silver Fizz rushed in, hoping to stop him, Morris and Hank closely following his lead.
"I once knew another travellin' partner of his," he began quickly; "used to live down Moosejaw Rapids way—"
"Is that so?" said Hank.
"Kind o' useful sort er feller," chimed in Morris.
All the idea the men had was to stop the tongue wagging before the discrepancies became so glaring that we should be forced to take notice of them, and ask questions. But, just as well try to stop an angry bull-moose on the run, or prevent Beaver Creek freezing in mid-winter by throwing in pebbles73 near the shore. Out it came! And, though the discrepancy74 this time was insignificant75, it somehow brought us all in a second face to face with the inevitable76 and dreaded77 climax78.
"And so I tramped all over that little bit of an island, hoping he might somehow have gotten in without my knowing it, and always thinking I heard that awful last cry of his in the darkness—and then the night dropped down impenetrably, like a damn thick blanket out of the sky, and—"
All eyes fell away from his face. Hank poked79 up the logs with his boot, and Morris seized an ember in his bare fingers to light his pipe, although it was already emitting clouds of smoke. But the professor caught the ball flying.
"I thought you said he sank without a cry," he remarked quietly, looking straight up into the frightened face opposite, and then riddling80 mercilessly the confused explanation that followed.
The cumulative81 effect of all these forces, hitherto so rigorously repressed, now made itself felt, and the circle spontaneously broke up, everybody moving at once by a common instinct. The professor's wife left the party abruptly82, with excuses about an early start next morning. She first shook hands with Rushton, mumbling83 something about his comfort in the night.
The question of his comfort, however, devolved by force of circumstances upon myself, and he shared my tent. Just before wrapping up in my double blankets—for the night was bitterly cold—he turned and began to explain that he had a habit of talking in his sleep and hoped I would wake him if he disturbed me by doing so.
Well, he did talk in his sleep—and it disturbed me very much indeed. The anger and violence of his words remain with me to this day, and it was clear in a minute that he was living over again some portion of the scene upon the lake. I listened, horror-struck, for a moment or two, and then understood that I was face to face with one of two alternatives: I must continue an unwilling84 eavesdropper85, or I must waken him. The former was impossible for me, yet I shrank from the latter with the greatest repugnance86; and in my dilemma87 I saw the only way out of the difficulty and at once accepted it.
Cold though it was, I crawled stealthily out of my warm sleeping-bag and left the tent, intending to keep the old fire alight under the stars and spend the remaining hours till daylight in the open.
As soon as I was out I noticed at once another figure moving silently along the shore. It was Hank Milligan, and it was plain enough what he was doing: he was examining the holes that had been cut in the upper ribs of the canoe. He looked half ashamed when I came up with him, and mumbled88 something about not being able to sleep for the cold. But, there, standing together beside the over-turned canoe, we both saw that the holes were far too small for a man's hand and arm and could not possibly have been cut by two men hanging on for their lives in deep water. Those holes had been made afterwards.
Hank said nothing to me and I said nothing to Hank, and presently he moved off to collect logs for the fire, which needed replenishing, for it was a piercingly cold night and there were many degrees of frost.
Three days later Hank and Silver Fizz followed with stumbling footsteps the old Indian trail that leads from Beaver Creek to the southwards. A hammock was slung89 between them, and it weighed heavily. Yet neither of the men complained; and, indeed, speech between them was almost nothing. Their thoughts, however, were exceedingly busy, and the terrible secret of the woods which formed their burden weighed far more heavily than the uncouth90, shifting mass that lay in the swinging hammock and tugged91 so severely92 at their shoulders.
They had found "it" in four feet of water not more than a couple of yards from the lee shore of the island. And in the back of the head was a long, terrible wound which no man could possibly have inflicted93 upon himself.
Printed by MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED, Edinburgh.
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1
eeriness
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| n.怪诞，胆怯，阴森 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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perpetuating
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| perpetuate的现在进行式 | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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crunched
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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discrepancies
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| n.差异，不符合（之处），不一致（之处）( discrepancy的名词复数 ) | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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cylinders
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| n.圆筒( cylinder的名词复数 )；圆柱；汽缸；（尤指用作容器的）圆筒状物 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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zigzagged
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| adj.呈之字形移动的v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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discrepancy
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| n.不同；不符；差异；矛盾 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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riddling
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| adj.谜一样的，解谜的n.筛选 | |
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cumulative
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| adj.累积的，渐增的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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eavesdropper
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| 偷听者 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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