Chapter Fifty-Eight

Cana Island Light

A new cloud cover was moving out of the northwest. It periodically rendered the woods completely lightless. The moon returned after each brief pause, but the blackouts were longer and more frequent. During each dark interval I wondered whether Evenfall spoke the truth about our enemy not being vanquished. I turned my nose into the wind but could not detect the stench of corruption.

Jean led us with expertise through the gloomy night, and we stayed on his heels in single file with Evenfall between us. Our pursuers would not make it this far without their own guide. If they eventually caught up with us they would be unlikely to follow the rule of law, particularly if they thought I had access to a secret treasure of limitless value. Those with power always wanted more.

The sound of our footfall through the snow became duller and slightly muted. Trees loomed malevolently on either side of us. The night itself had fully awakened and was swallowing all that breathed within Dark Woods. The sound of gunfire from out of the south shattered the silence. A lone wolf yelped as if in great pain, and my heart sank. We three stopped to face the direction of the cry.

“Light?” I asked. Jean nodded.

“I’m going back for him,” he told us. “We’ll catch up with you when it’s safe. Go.”

He disappeared into the shadows.

The light of the moon disappeared but did not return. The forest was now truly impenetrable. Evenfall reached out to grab hold of my hand so we would not lose one another. “Now what?” she asked.

I envisioned the lighthouse in Bailey’s Harbor, south of Rowley’s Bay. The Cana Island Light was ten or fifteen miles from Jean’s cabin, as the crow flies, but I had no idea how far it was from our current position. The forest had long since lost its alignment with the True Pillars. Without Jean to guide us, I feared we’d wander into unfriendly terrain.

“Well?” she asked in response to my silence.

“Now I show you the path inspired by the All-Father.”

A light permeates all life, and some lives shine more brightly than others. Some places shine more brightly, as well. Some places stand on the border between the sea and the horizon, between dawn and dusk. I sought such a place.

Evenfall smiled coyly. I could hear it in her voice. “Take me away, Fire Walker.”

“How do you know that name? It is not Miskenupik.”

She thought carefully before answering.

“Not everything I have done has been for their benefit,” she confessed. “Those images that oppose their needs are not offensive to me, so long as they serve my needs.”

She had not really answered my question so I asked again. “There are few living who understand that name. How do you know it?”

“Salome,” she answered.

Evenfall knew Salome, which almost certainly meant she knew Umbra. She ran with an evil crowd. Evenfall was dangerous. Did this newfound insight cause me to do something smart like run from her?

No.

I grabbed hold of her hand. Affectionately. Like a thick-skulled, smitten, rabbit-in-a-wolf’s-jaws, shit-for-brains loser. You get the picture.

Together we awaited the moon’s return.

I retrieved the cards, found the one of interest, and returned the Fire Walker card to my back pocket. The Kesemanetow featuring the Gill’s Rock Light became vibrant in my hand. A splintered fragment from a distant past reminded me this painting led to many lighthouses. I watched as the circular parapet aligned with the card’s horizontal and vertical lines. The True Path.

The tower’s beacon of light twinkled once, twice, and then filled the night with dazzling light. We both needed to shield our eyes. The rotating beam circled the forest several times before settling upon a path to our right. The Kesemanetow wanted us to walk into the light. It must have sensed that our need required transport along this side of the sun’s path, not beyond.

The first step, as always, was neither hot nor cold. The sound of windchimes filled the air and then became heavier and more solemn, like the sound of church bells. No jasmine hung in the air tonight, but the scent of narcissus did, musky and sweet. The slightest hint of decomposition filled me with great fear. I could see the path ahead of me waver slightly, and in my distraction I almost lost my bearings.

We followed the beam until we saw the Cana Island Light’s grand tower. Our walk was short, and there was no change in seasons. No music either, other than the chimes fading away with each progressive step.

A gray fog surrounded us at the path’s end. Water lapped against ice and stone. Evenfall held tightly to my hand, and she was trembling. The fire of this moment lighted her eyes, but I had too little trust in her to explain what I had done.

The shoreline was covered by a great sheet of ice under constant attack by the lake’s innumerable probing tongues. The green lingulae licked, swatted, and crashed upon the frozen ground. Myriad mocha-colored boulders rose above the winter landscape, some partially covered by snow but others released of their white burden by the constant wind. The sky was opaque and starless, but an occasional break in the nocturnal cloud cover caressed the looming tower with brief flashes of moonlight. We were out of the woods at last.

The Cana Island Light rose eighty-nine feet above the shore of Bailey’s Harbor, a picturesque town nestled along the Lake Michigan coast. The tower was supposedly made of cream city bricks, but they were invisible beneath a protective crust of steel plates, each painted white like the snow. The cast iron railing and cap at the tower’s pinnacle were black. The color scheme reminded me of lighthouses dotting the New England coast.

The tower light projected through us and beyond, reaching eighteen miles eastward over Lake Michigan. The beam was quite a sight to behold, particularly after coming out of the darkness, as it were. We walked the precarious path along the icy boulders and headed toward the stand of hemlock that grew in a semicircle around the tower.

A tree of magic, hemlock is, purple of bark, graceful, made more so by age. This particular stand had only been here a century but cousins in this part of the North Woods had survived nine centuries.

We followed a well-worn trail past the tower. I led Evenfall onward to Cana Cove Road, and from there we headed northwest toward Rowley’s Bay, avoiding the main roads, mindful the police might extend their search for us into this part of Door County.

Our clothing was damp, and the night was cold and windy. We walked at a brisk pace and reached Jean’s cabin within three hours. As we walked up the winding asphalt driveway the stars shone down upon frosted sand dunes and the glistening waters of the lake.

The front door was solid oak with bronze hardware. Fortunately for us it was unlocked. We entered the home and walked into the prow-shaped great room. Evenfall approached the cabin’s lakeside windows and looked out, probably admiring the view. If this were a clear morning she would spy Spider Island floating upon the icy green waters of the lake. Tonight she watched the play of moonlight upon water. She eventually turned her attention to the massive stone fireplace and cleared her throat forcibly. I took the hint.

Many hours after our departure from Point Maudit we stood between a green leather sofa and a fire I ignited from a stack of cured maple. The fireplace was made of multihued fieldstone harvested from a local quarry and was truly magnificent when its hearth was aflame. Evenfall made herself at home and wandered the main floor.

She led me to the master bedroom and flipped on the light switch. The room was small but elegantly appointed. A queen-sized four-poster bed of cherry sat in front of the north wall. The posts were fluted and appeared handcarved. I suspected Jean’s father had created this handsome piece. The room was not carpeted which made the hardwood flooring all the more vibrant. Along the south wall sat an expertly crafted armoire, also made of solid cherry. I opened the armoire and found a chest of drawers with four shelves.

I retrieved dry articles of clothing for myself while Evenfall poked around the wardrobe. I chose black cotton athletic pants and an extra large hooded sweatshirt, forest green in color and stenciled with Door County across the chest. Evenfall found a thick, black cotton bathrobe and a comfortable-looking pair of men’s pajama bottoms.

“That will slow you down,” I warned her.

“That doesn’t matter,” she corrected me. “I’m not the one on the lamb.”

She then proceeded to undress in front of me so that her round breasts and burgundy nipples were tauntingly close. She noticed my preoccupation and then moved with unabashed deliberation. Even her panties were removed with an absence of haste. She exposed a shock of black hair with neither a stripper’s feigned sense of arrogance nor a wife’s unguarded repose. I continued to hold my change of clothing to my chest until she was dressed comfortably. She raised one thick black eyebrow as if to say, your turn.

I stripped to the waist with relative ease but grew uncomfortably shy when the time came to exchange wet pants for dry. She was clearly using her sexuality against me, and I needed to keep at least a trace of self-control. I turned my backside to her until the task was complete. When I turned back Evenfall was adjusting her robe. She cleared her throat harshly when she found me eyeing her exposed breasts. She pulled the robe tighter.

“If you are not gonna share then move along.”

I went back to the great room and stuck a poker in the fire, literally, thereby causing heat to rush through the room. Evenfall made her way to the kitchen where she rummaged through birch cabinets in search of nourishment.

“There’s nothing here!” she shouted in frustration.

“I don’t think Jean’s sisters come here very often,” I replied. “I know Jean doesn’t.”

We had no need for shouting. The dining area, kitchen, great room and foyer had no boundaries between them except for a waist-high kitchen bar crafted from rough-hewn oak timbers and a granite countertop. The slate floors, a blend of blues, grays, and reds, magnified the sound of our voices.

Evenfall was staring at me with her arms crossed over her chest. I knew that look. She was hungry, tired, and frustrated. So was I, for that matter. “I have an idea,” I said.

I had the foresight earlier in the evening to load my pockets with whatever cash I found laying about the house. A rather well-stocked general store stood about a mile or so west of the cabin. I informed Evenfall I would jog to the store and bring back provisions. She had no objections.

Along the short run I wondered why I hadn’t simply abandoned her back in the lightless forest. Isn’t she potentially as dangerous as Umbra? Or as evil?

She needs me for something, but do I really need her? Am I foolishly allowing her beauty to lure me into seeing her as a damsel in distress? Am I that stupid?

Yes.

But also, no. Shortly after Isabel told me I was “not alone,” I touched ground upon Point Maudit and ran into the loving arms of Evenfall. Well, not loving, but you get the picture. Isabel meant for this to happen. I felt this to be true.

Evenfall was the creator of at least one tarot card. It was not a masterpiece of Kesemanetow or Miskenupik significance, but her art was on its way toward reaching that lofty height. Something told me I would need her skills, particularly in my quest to save the children of the bay.

That and I hadn’t been laid in a really long time.