“‘SOMEONE’S in the kitchen with Di-nah, strummin’ on the old banjo. And singin’, fee-fie, fiddly-eye-oh. Fee-fie, fiddly-eye-oh-oh-oh-oh. . .’”
Hearing the Monroes’ voices raised in song, seeing the warm glow on their faces, watching them sharpen their sticks in preparation for marshmallow treats, I was content. It had been only ten minutes since Dawg had made his ominous remark at the water’s edge, ten minutes since I’d felt the cold wind run through me, but all that might as well have happened in another lifetime. For now there was nothing more on my mind than peace on earth, good will to men, and the unopened bag of marshmallows lying at Toby’s side.
“Listen to the happy campers,” Chester said of the Monroes. I glanced over my shoulder to where he lay stretched out on a log, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “How innocent they are in their merrymaking. While out there somewhere in the shadows of the night—”
“It isn’t dark yet,” I observed.
“In the woods it is always dark,” he said. “In the forest of the soul it is always night.”
“Chester,” I said, “have you been reading Stephen King again?”
“Howdy, folks.”
I was spared a book report by the arrival of Bud, Spud, and the inevitable Dawg.
“Well, hello, Bud,” Mr. Monroe said. “We were just about to toast some marshmallows. Would you and your brother care to join us?”
Bud smiled awkwardly, as if he’d long been out of practice. “Why, sure, that’d be right nice. That fire isn’t going to last long, though. Who made that thang?”
Pete cried, “I did!”
“Well, I don’t know who taught ya about fires, young fella, but that one’s got about as much life in it as a toad what’s jes shook hands with a steamroller.”
“I’m a Boy Scout of America,” Pete said proudly. “I learned how to make a fire from the Fieldbook.”
“Page one seventeen,” Toby said, coming to his brother’s defense.
“You cain’t build a fire from a book,” Bud scoffed. “I’ll get that thang goin’ again in no time. Say, I tell you what. It isn’t going to get dark for another twenty minutes or so. Why don’t you-all go for a walk along the crick? There’s a purty falls up there. You folks know this part of the lake?”
“We’ve never been here before. We have a cabin cross t’other side,” said Mr. Monroe, looking as surprised as the rest of us at what had come out of his mouth. I wondered if it was just a matter of time before we were all saying “thang” and “howdy.”
“Well, now, Spud knows these parts like he knows his own name,” said Bud. “He can git you up Latawata Crick to Breakneck Falls afore dark. And by the time you get back, I’ll have this fire going good and strong.”
I saw Mrs. Monroe exchange a worried look with her husband. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s getting late. Our boys should be in bed soon.”
“Oh, Mom,” Toby whined. “We go to bed later than this at home.”
“Yeah,” Pete said. “We have to toast marshmallows yet and sing some more songs.”
“And tell scary stories,” said Toby. “We can’t go to bed until we tell scary stories.”
“The boys are right,” Mr. Monroe said. “This is meant to be an adventure. And you don’t go to bed early on an adventure. Come on, Ann, let’s go.” He reached out his hand, which Mrs. Monroe reluctantly accepted. “What do you say, boys,” he said, turning to us, “how about a little exercise? Harold, with the way you’ve been eating lately, you could stand to lose a pound or two.”
I tried to ignore Howie’s chuckling as I struggled to my feet. Dawg came over. “You’re going to like Breakneck Falls,” he informed us. “One hundred feet of falling water.”
“For you droolers and spitters on our tour,” Chester said, “here’s one sight you won’t want to miss.”
“I have the feeling yer friend is making wise at my expense,” Dawg said with a snarl. “If he is, he’d better watch out.”
“Threats don’t frighten me,” said Chester.
“Well,” Dawg said, as the light from Spud’s knife glanced off the fire in our direction, “there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
“Spud,” Bud shouted. “Spud, take these folks up to the falls. Spud. Spud, I’m talking to you.”
As we set off, Chester turned to Howie and me and said, “How comforting to think that Spud knows these parts like he knows his own name.”
NOW THE TRUTH of the matter is that had it not been for Mr. Monroe’s crack about my weight, I might never have taken that hike. Vanity, thy name is flab. I consoled myself that having worked off an astonishing number of calories, I would be entitled to an extra portion of s’mores on my return. But as I traveled the wet and buggy path up Latawata Creek, I began to worry. Not about s’mores, but about the night itself. I don’t know if it was Spud’s silence, which spread like contagion among the Monroes, or the unfamiliar sounds of the forest, but something was definitely beginning to spook me.
By the time we’d reached Breakneck Falls, I was too unnerved by the creatures I’d begun to imagine lurking behind every tree along the way to care much about its beauty. My lack of enthusiasm disappointed Dawg, and I suspect I have no one to blame but myself for the trouble that ensued after I commented to that effect.
“Ain’t that a sight?” said Dawg.
“Wow,” Howie uttered breathlessly.
“Not bad,” Chester remarked.
“It reminds me,” I said, “of the time Pete left the water running in the upstairs tub.”
“That all?” said Dawg. “Then I’ll show you something that will really impress you. Follow me.”
He bounded off through the woods. Without thinking, Howie and I bounded off after him.
“Come on, Pop!” Howie cried over his shoulder.