Swan Lake

Life without music would be a mistake - Fredrich Nietzsche

Chapter 1

The Present

Clive was the quiet type who never spoke in more than two to three word sentences. I would have imagined as the lead in a Tom Clancy movie. We had what seemed like the better part of an hour's ride to the cabin by the lake and the trees went on for miles in every direction. He was going to talk. It was only a matter of time.

"Oh look, " I said, pointing out the window. "There a little cloud. We might get some rain."

"Mmm, hmm." he nodded.

"I don't suppose there's a blockbuster around here?"

"Not really."

"What was the last movie you watched?"

It looked as though he had cracked a smile.

"Agatha, right? She put you up to this? "

The quaint, motherly woman at the gas station who went on for -- at least twenty minutes about -- about how frozen lakes have more warmth?

"Never heard of her." I said.

"That woman." He smiled to himself, after he chuckled. "Fine."

"Oh, so now you want to talk to me."

"It's not like there's a road or anything."Clive said. He stayed glued to the soggy leaves, fresh with morning dew, blanketing the two-lane highway in swathes of orange.

"Uh huh. Anything special around here?"

“You see that pole?”

"What pole? "

"One we just passed."

My knees unhitched from the glovebox as I swooped around, gawking out of the passanger window at the telephone pole in front of a pile newly hewed logs.

"Last service for the next forty miles. You got one of those smartphone thingies?"

"Never leave home without it."

"Paperweight!"

Sure enough, the reception of my useless upgrade had flatlined.

"Ugh! How do the lakians communicate, smoke signals?"

"Nature is beautiful this time of year. Ever been out in it before?"

I tried to exterminate the idea by rythymic tapping of my head against the headrest which delighted Clive further.

" I brought and a good novel," I said, tapping the stuffed backpack I squirmed in my seat to give my foot an inch of breathing room.

"Tell me about this 'good novel'"

"It was an impulse buy from the gas station."

"About?"

"I'll know, once I read it." Clive heard me unfolding a brochure and premepting my curiosity.

"Swan lake."

"Are there Geese up here?"

Clive shook his head.

"No, but it's ethereal. Tchaikovsky'd be proud."

"I had you figured for a Garth Brooks kind of guy."

"I get it all the time."

"Is there something in the lake?" I asked, my expression darkening.

Clive's hand seasawed in the air as we turned down a dirt path.

"Dead geese?" he laughed. "Some say it's the most beautiful thing. Some people say it smells like a landfill -- probably from the hot springs over there." I only saw a feint break in the treeline, as we jumped a sudden pothole.

"You?"

"A body of water and all that comes with it. "

The ride stopped in front of a magnificent cabin with a rustic exterior, bisected by the lake on one side, and a spacious decked porch on the other. The engine went quiet. A short distance away from the porch, the business end of an axe was buried in a tree stump surrounded by stubby blocks.

"There's a fireplace?" I asked.

"Maybe."Clive said.

The smell of damp moss trickled through my window. A mallard called across the lake. It was joined by another bird with a recognizable song, that I never knew the name of. The dirt shifted beneath my hiking boots, and I was immediately greeted by a swarm of gnats.

"Welcome to the great outdoors!" Clive said.

"Breathtaking."

"Come on," Clive said, removing his keys from the ignition. I circled the steaming mouth of the pickup. Skipping over a large puddle in the center of the road, I followed Clive to the entrance.

"Locked," he grumbled, jerking the doorknob.

"I'll be right back," he said. He scurried around the side, there was a scufflle inside -- I never asked -- and then seconds later, he appeared in the doorway, and pushed the screen open . Sunlight entered the cabin from under the loft curtain. The air was undisturbed. I felt like an expoditionist who'd stumbled onto an undiscovered world through a lost cave. The fireplace was clean except for one ant trail of soot under the matalic log pin. Clive turned a stove knob, rousing the flames. When he stuck his head in the pantry, the edge of the cabinent door hid the front half of his face.

"Doesn't look expired." He muttered. He shut it and stuffed a fat wad of dip into his bottom lip. "I'll swing back through in a couple of days to check on you."

Clive exited as though a great gust of wind had swept through the house. As soon as he left, I reached for my phone only to find it was still deader than a doornail.