The Lady of the Lake
W. Randy Rice 

This is the first time I’m telling this story. To anyone. Please bear with me. I can’t even be sure it really happened. It seemed real enough. 

Right before I moved to Pennsylvania, I was feeling lonely. For camp. Lots of emotions. I was getting ready to start a new life, in someplace I couldn’t be sure I knew. Camp was for certain though. I knew it better than I knew anyplace else. There was a comfort in that that I really needed at that point in time. 

So, it was a Friday night. I simply threw my sleeping back in the back of the Bronco, made sure I had a lighter, and headed for camp. I stopped at the little market in Pinch on the way out. Bought a six-pack, some beef jerky, and a snickers bar. I wasn’t interested in eating. I was interested in thinking. And remembering.  It was still light when I hit the creek. Came down off of Dutch Ridge at the Walk-In. Started to turn right toward camp and . . . well, it just didn’t seem right. I don’t know why, but I just stopped. I hadn’t even thought about the Hunting and Fishing Club up to this point, but suddenly I had this compulsion. I had to be there. Even though it was early in the evening, it was growing dark in the hollow. I crossed the bridge I remembered the tractor and covered wagon rattling, and eventually avoiding all together. Once I crossed it, I’d figured I probably should’a gone through the creek, but . . . what was done was done. Besides, if I’d gotten stuck I would’ve been screwed in a major way. 

I was tempted to venture up Laurel. But, I was suddenly eager to be at the lakes. And, I turned left up the creek I knew would lead me there. It was rough going. The road had washed out in several places. The four-wheel drive became absolutely necessary at one point, and my adventure had begun! 

Forty-five minutes later, and I was on the smooth sandy road into the club. A family was swimming in the deep swimming hole there. A buzz-headed kid was swinging back and forth on the swing. The father waived, and the mother (I’m assuming these things) never took her eyes off the kids hovering over the murky waters. The water looked green and cool. 

I crested the hill and saw the lodge. What an incredibly magical place. It was ageless. I remembered “Zonk” sleeping in a hammock out on the porch, with the steam rising off the pond to greet the morning sun. I remember the fire pit at the bottom of the hill, and smoking cigarettes and talking too loudly with Burris and Jeremy on that same overnight. I hadn’t gone to sleep until 3 or 4 in the morning. Stayed up, in the back room, reading Fish & Stream and old issues of Reader’s Digest. 

I turned right, up the hollow, and things became less familiar. I knew the lakes, but for whatever reason, this stretch of the trip seemed foreign to me. It wasn’t long though before I came to the lower lake. I turned into the field, but, . . . something nagged at me. The upper lake was “home” tonight. It was where we’d launched the applesauce and beans. I would sleep there tonight. 

There was a double dog-leg in front of the dam, and the road turned sharply up a hill. I remembered that. What I didn’t remember was, they had drained the lake! It came back to me suddenly. Last time I’d been here was with, my good buddy Wiles. Pat and Danny were there too. We’d climbed down into what used to be the lake. It was only a stream now with steep sides. I remember them laughing at me. I was standing in the creek, and tried to walk up the side. Given the amount of Anheisur-Bush’s finest I’d consumed though, I basically walked straight into the dirt bank, and bounced right back off. Someone else drove after that. 

Anyway, I pulled into where the shelter used to be, overlooking the lake. The grass was tall, and the landscape seemed, . . bleak. I could “feel” camp around me but, . . . what I was looking at made it clear: Things had changed. 

I built a fire, and got the six pack. Gnawing on a piece of beef jerky, I walked over and was pleasantly surprised to find the tree we’d had the ax throwing contest with was still standing, apparently no worse the wear. Something moved down in the stream. I turned to see what it was, but . . . there was nothing there. I’d forgotten. It could get spooky out here. What if the Lady of the Lake came for me?!?! Ha. That was a great story. 

Dark was coming on now . . . slowly it seemed. And what used to be the lake came alive with sounds. Mostly of frogs and crickets. A whippoorwill (or two) sang in the distance. I wanted it to come closer. I sat there in front of the fire, and closed my eyes for a moment. Listening as intently as I could . . . trying to will the sounds to come closer . . . and bring the memories I knew they held. I heard something else. Was that . . . crying? And then it was gone. 

I knew there were cats up here and wondered for a moment if perhaps it was a kitten. It had that mournful kind of lost sound. But, then I decided I hadn’t actually heard anything at all. I got the Snickers bar, and another beer. They were getting warm now. The air was getting cooler. And damp. 

I stoked the fire. It became brighter, and the woods grew darker. The second beer relaxed me, and I began to remember. The stress of moving was gone, and I remembered the faces and times of camp. The soles of my feet grew warm, propped in front of the fire. The fire popped, and hissed, and squealed. Did I put green wood in there? Surely not. Where was that sound coming from? I realized, . . . not the fire. A chill moved through me. Deep. 

A sudden motion at (what used to be) the waterline across the lake. My eyes couldn’t adjust from the fire, and I missed whatever it was. Seemed, . . . not big. Human? Ha . . . knew I shouldn’t come out here alone! 

Two beers became four, and then six. And I caught myself nodding off in the warmth of the fire. The sounds and smells came to me now. Over the years, I’d found these senses were more difficult to conjure in my memory than mere images of camp. I’d snap awake, startled and disoriented. And then smile and try . . . quite purposefully, to go back to what I’d come here to find. 

She seemed to appreciate the fire. I looked up, and she looked back and smiled, and our gaze returned to the fire. I don’t remember being started in the least. She appeared young. Younger than me. 27-28, somewhere in there. She had blonde hair. Long. She was dressed in a dress of some kind that seemed oddly out of date, and inappropriate for the woods. Her hair seemed older than her face. She was pretty. But, pale. 

She asked me my name, and I told her. She said she’d seen me here before. Several times. Long ago. I woke up now, and looked over each of my shoulders. She simply smiled, and looked back into the fire. 

Her name was Emily. She’d grown up on a farm, right where we sat. They’d had livestock. Cows. And, bulls. She said, when she was only 11 years old, she’d taken a shortcut across the field. One of those bulls had been hiding from the heat in the shadows. And it came to deliver its frustrations with the heat on her. She’d made it, almost, to the barbed wire fence, when the bull took the wind from her. Pushing her into the jagged points of the fence, driving his horns deep into her back. 

She didn’t remember it hurting. Until she had to go back to school. And the other kids were afraid of her. They called her names, and left ugly things in her desk. She started to stay home, more and more often. No one seemed to miss her. 

She grew older. Alone. Her parents died, both in the same year. And she was left to tend the farm alone. With no distractions, her harvest was ample for her own needs. And, then the club came. They dammed up the creek, and the water rose, consuming her crops. She was angry, and hungry, . . . but she wouldn’t show her face to the men who did the work. She retreated to the woods, and listened as the water took her home. 

Years passed, and she began to hear different sounds. Young voices. Down close to where she used to live. She came down from the hills, and there were boys and young men, playing. She’d watch, from the tree line, as carefully as she could. Relishing in the sounds they made, and how they looked. Sometimes they’d bring girls with them. Taunting them with songs, and things they’d find in the weeds. She thought the girls were beautiful, and didn’t understand why the boys did not seem more eager for their company. 

She’d move closer, trying to hear, and to see. Once, she was discovered. And, she remembers they ran in horror. They didn’t come back for a long time. Once they did start coming again, she listened, as they told stories about her, in eerie detail. She quit coming to see them. 

Just a few years ago, she heard the bulldozers again. And came to see the handsome men driving them. They took down the dam. Then they left. And the fields she’d known as a young girl were revealed again. She visited her parents, at their graves. They told her she was beautiful, and that they were proud of her. 

I looked up, realizing I’d not looked at her since realizing she was there. Tears lined her cheeks, but she smiled. “I stay here because it is my home. They gave it back to me. You are welcome here. I would like to see, all of you, again.” 

The morning was wet, but warm. I pulled myself up to my feet. Damp. The smell of smoke was thick. But there was no fire. Only embers. I picked up the cans and wrappers and stashed them in a bag to take with me. I went to the creek, getting water to make to clean my hands and face, and make sure the fire was out. My dreams had been as vivid as I’d hoped, and I was ready to move on. Scooped the water with my hands, and as the ripples cleared, I saw a single footprint. Sharp edges. Fresh. Small. Feminine. The tall grass in front of me was freshly parted and led to the woods on the other side of what used to be the lake. 

She waved. I nodded, and promised I’d be back.