The Lake Erie Monster

Not long ago, if you had spent enough time at the lake, boating or fishing or swimming, or perhaps walking along the shore, enjoying the warmth of the sun or the cool breezes that sweep the waters at night, you might have chanced upon one of Lake Erie's strange, beguiling whirlpools. These days they are a rare sight, so rare in fact that few remember them or even know they can happen at all. But many years ago, especially in late summer and early fall, it was not unusual to hear of a group of swimmers who suddenly found themselves in the throes of a playful but dangerous eddy, or worse, a boat full of men upset by a circular, violent current.

There were periods in which the whirlpools occurred so frequently that experts from both Canadian and American universities were called in to study them. But no amount of diving, measuring, or testing revealed the cause of the phenomenon, which is just the sort of news that sets people's tongues wagging. It wasn't too long before folks had their own explanation of the whirlpools. As the winds grew colder, and the leaves turned orange and yellow, and the evening sky shielded the sun in cloudy veils of crimson hues, people who spotted a whirlpool started seeing something else out there on the darkening waters, something that they thought was just the thing to get a lake like Erie churning.

This kind of talk was nothing new to old Jarem Kelly. He'd been hearing about the Lake Erie monster ever since he was a boy. He was raised near Leamington, right near the docks, and a good part of his upbringing had been entrusted to his nanny, an ancient woman of Indian descent. She delighted in filling his evenings with tales of the creature's comings and goings, and many a night he fell asleep ripe for dreaming monstrous dreams, and eager to spend the next day searching the horizon for a glimpse of the creature.

The nanny's favorite tale concerned her great-great-great-grandfather, who had been lost to the jaws of the "serpent of the waters" while on a scouting mission for General Desprez during the French and Indian War. The Indian's traveling companion, a Moravian missionary, apparently watched helplessly from the bough of a birch tree as his friend was snatched off the shore by the monster. The missionary barely escaped and thereafter wandered for days in the forest, until he came to a little fort, what is now the town of New Halston, and fell on his face just inside the gate. He uttered one sentence in his native Slavic tongue, then fell silent, struck completely dumb for the rest of his pitiful life: "I have seen the terror of the Lord," he had blurted, "and it lives in the lake!" What the people learned from him later came through his pen, but when he was asked to describe the creature, his hand would start to shake, his body begin to tremble, and soon he would fall into fits of uncontrollable sobbing.

This tale and many others the boy heard over and over again, until they were as much a part of him as the monster was of the lake. Kelly—as he was known in town—was old now, but the legends never really left him. He had given up any hope of seeing the monster, but he no longer needed proof of its existence. He simply knew it was out there, somewhere, and, unlike so many folks, he was content to let it be. His love of fancy was replaced by a desire for quietude that only a body of water can satisfy. As years went by he learned to survive peacefully at the water's edge, fishing for his keep and seeing no one most of the time.

On the first day of each month, however, at exactly nine in the morning, Kelly started off for town, a one-hour walk through the woods from the lakeshore. He never thought it strange that, on that one day, Crothers' General Store was filled with men, reading newspapers, smoking cigarettes and pipes, and chatting mindlessly while patting the shoulders of their boys, who knew to grin broadly and keep silent while learning the ways of men. Everyone respected old Kelly, who had become something of a lakeside wise man to them, but moreover, he was the unwitting founder of an odd tradition in the town, which was little more than an excuse for men who had scarce else to do but gather and discuss the latest news.

This day was no different than any other of Kelly's visits, save that his bones ached a little more than usual after the morning walk. The sun was bright and hot, but there were plenty of clouds to hinder its rays, and among the trees, on the path that he had cut himself in his youth, the air was cool and breezy.

"Good morning, Kelly!" resounded the men's cheery greeting as he stepped up to the storefront.

Kelly made for a comical figure walking through that screen door. He was all in gray, from head to foot, starting with his frumpy fishing hat, pulled tightly around his head, and down to his leather boots, once light brown, now stained from the sand and silt of Lake Erie's shallows. He wore the only type of clothes he owned, a dingy work suit bought years ago during one of his stints with the factories in Windsor. He hated to work for others—another reason to keep to the lake—but he loved those work suits, which he was sure were no longer to be found in modern stores. He nodded at the men in his usual fashion and smiled slightly. "How silly men are," he thought, though not unkindly, "to spend all day in a store!"

The men were full of mirth at his arrival. They loved to tease the old fisherman about his eccentric ways. After all, rarely these days did one find a man who still lived without the comforts of the modern world.

"Have you been listening to the news on the radio, Kelly?" asked Bill Crothers, with a twinkle in his eye. Of course, television hadn't come into its own yet, but even if it had, Kelly would have paid it no mind at all.

"Don't have a radio, young Bill Crothers. Don't need one."

"But they're talkin' about the monster," said someone from behind him. Kelly ignored the remark and started wandering through the store, taking a peach off the fruit rack, a bit of twine here, a roll of tape there. He wove in and out of the men as though they were just more trees to circumvent.

"Well?" Bill asked.

Kelly stopped and looked up. "Well what?" he returned.

"Well ... have you seen ... anything?"

"Nope."

The gray-suited man continued his shopping until he had made his way back to the counter. His arms were full of sundry items, including a jar of kerosene and some new fishing line. He dropped them suddenly in front of Bill Crothers and glared across the counter.

"That it?"

"Yep," said Kelly. Then he raised his eyebrows and muttered to himself, "I wonder if I might have a smoke now or later ..."

Now, Kelly had given up smoking over twenty years earlier, except on this one day. His low-spoken remark was Bill's cue to hand him a pipe, already cleaned and packed, and a match. Kelly fumbled with it for many minutes, his hands trembling and his breath failing him.

"Want me to light it for you, Kelly?"

"I can do it!" he insisted, still struggling. Finally, he managed, but everyone noticed how much longer it had taken this time. No matter, for the men were eager to ask the old man questions about fishing, especially those who weren't very good at it. Kelly could tell them where to look, when to throw in the line, even what was biting.

"Any blue gill out there, Mr. Kelly?" came a voice from the crowd.

"Not much," he responded in his usual crisp manner. "Gone deep."

"How 'bout bass?" came another.

"Plenty. But bitter in the skillet this year."

Bill was anxious to press him about the monster, but he was interrupted by another, who wanted to tease the old man: "Comin' to the social this week, Kelly?"

"Can socialize with myself on the lake."

"I think I heard Father Markham asking about you, Kelly," said someone else. "He's wonderin' if you're comin' to mass this Sunday." Everyone chuckled at this comment.

"Got God on the lake," said Kelly, with a nod of affirmation.

Finally Bill found a way to work in the sightings. "Now, Kelly," he said, "maybe you'll want to come into town anyway. Especially since that monster's been about."

"Ain't bothered me," said Kelly, taking the bait. "Ain't and won't."

"Now, how do you know that?" demanded Bill. "Are you tellin' us you don't believe in the monster?"

"Believe plenty," said the old man. "Creature's been around lot longer than you or me."

"All those years on the lake and you've never seen it?"

"Heard it once," said Kelly, with a wink to the young ones. "Sort of a high-pitched moan, as if it were sorry or tired or somethin', and then it was gone."

"Well, maybe you'll get to see it someday," said a boy after searching his father's face for permission to speak.

"Nope, never will," said Kelly with certainty in his voice. "Don't need to."

"What's need got to do with it?" asked Bill, exasperation telling in his voice. "What are you saying, Kelly?"

"Need's got everything to do with it!" said Kelly. He glared hard at the crowd. "When people need the beast, he comes. That's what I'm sayin'. Simple as that."

"You don't believe in it!" exclaimed Bill. He knew right away that his words formed a peculiar sort of indiscretion. Accusing the old man of the lake in this manner was like calling Father Markham a heathen. "Sorry, Kelly," said Bill with his head lowered. But it was too late; Kelly was already fired up.

"More than you ever will, even if you were to see it!" said Kelly. His eyes grew intense, and there was something of a growl deep in his throat. "You don't have to see it to believe it, young Bill Crothers. You can feel the creature if you have the spirit for it. Deep down, like the lake itself. Live in its shadow like I have all these years, and you know when it passes under your boat or stares at you from behind a lighthouse. He's there as sure as I'm standing here!"

With that the gray old man slapped some coins on the counter, snatched up his goods, and stomped off. But at the door he paused, his head bowed. He breathed in heavily and turned just enough to tip his hat at the men. "Good day to you."

Kelly hated to leave in such a huff, but he knew his temper might have got the best of him if he hadn't. He could be mighty fierce when set off. "Good thing I don't spend much time with that impertinent young man," he thought. "Ain't got the patience for it."

He wandered into the woods, his mind distracted. But it wasn't long on Bill Crothers. Instead, it started racing with the voice of his boyhood nanny painting vivid images of "the serpent of the waters." For the first time in a long while, he suddenly had an overwhelming desire to see the ancient, majestic creature. As he plodded along, the need to see it grew within him, a deep, soulful ache that seemed to fill his whole being.

"What's wrong with me?" he said, hoping to shake the feeling. But it persisted. Then suddenly he recalled something that was second nature to him in his childhood, a piece of knowledge that he once had but lost along life's path. For as his desire increased he realized that seeing the creature, the culmination of nature's work, was somehow vital to his understanding of his life on the lake.

Nearing his little hut on the shore, his mind reeled with excitement and longing. Soon the waters were before him, spread out as far as the eye could see. The sun shone down from high above, throwing flashes of light against the lake so that every ripple came clear. As he scanned the waters, he was struck with the immensity of everything. The sky, the lake, even the trees above him, made him feel singular and small. Just then, her voice, the old Indian again, seemed to be there, right with him, as if it were yesterday, filling him with wonder, with hope, with purpose, making him understand that all was greater than him, yet made especially for him. "The creature," said the voice, "is creation itself. It is out there, little Jarem, for you and for me, a reminder to us that there are no limitations in God's universe."

He heard no more after this. Like that old missionary, he could say nothing, but stood quietly at the lake's edge, filled with terror and amazement.

That evening Kelly prepared the boat for an excursion. He didn't often fish at night, an activity more therapeutic than profitable, but this night he knew he had to. He needed to be out on the lake. He needed to find the creature.

He prepared his gear quickly. He rewound his reels, dug up some bait from an old dirt pile behind his house, and loaded the boat with his tackle and best rods. He filled the lantern with kerosene and lit it, keeping a low flame to brighten his way. The water was calm and dark, almost black under the canopied sky. He could hardly make out the horizon and wondered aloud if this was a good idea. But the crickets were singing despite his intrusion, and the owl's message said all was well.

A ways out and he noticed he was having a bit of trouble with the current. "Rougher than I thought," said Kelly, taking note of the wind. On the shore he could see his house lit dimly by the autumn moon, which had discovered a hole in the clouds. He rowed out a little further, finding the main current that swept past his little inlet. Soon he was in fairly deep waters, perhaps a half-mile from shore, and fully committed to the lake. He was farther out than he wanted to be, though, for he wanted to fish closer to the entrance of the bay. He sighed, scolding himself for being so lax.

Dropping his oars, he tried to row, but found his strength failing him. "Com'on, old Kelly," he said to himself, "you've had it harder than this." It was no use. The oars seemed to be going their own way, as if an unseen hand were working them. Round and round they went, sometimes right, sometimes left, always fighting his direction. Sometimes they flailed about erratically, other times they dipped, up and down, or just down, as though being pulled by something below.

"If I were a superstitious man," he thought, "I'd say these waters were bewitched." He dared not say this aloud, lest the saying itself would make it so. "Confound it!" he burst out instead. "Ain't never seen the likes—"

His exclamation was silenced by the realization that he alone was making noise. The waves had gone completely still. The air was dead all around him. Even the oars had stopped fighting the water, and lay like sticks against the small boat. The moon was clearly in view and lit up the lake. Nothing seemed to be moving at all, except the boat, which was quietly drifting toward his little inlet. He decided he would try rowing again, but the very sound of his arms reaching toward the oars seemed an affront to the terrible, unnatural quiet that surrounded him. As the boat drifted toward his lakeside home, he suddenly felt weary. "I must row in," he thought, yet he couldn't bring himself to the task. "I am so tired."

Upon that thought, the worst happened. In front of the bow appeared a tiny eddy. In seconds it grew very deep and wide, and soon it was immense, dwarfing his little rowboat and pulling it in.

"My God!" exclaimed the frightened fisherman. "Never in my life!"

He noticed then that the fearsome silence had ended. All was astir, including the wind, which suddenly turned on him and threatened to topple his boat. The lake itself seemed to be bubbling, like a giant cauldron, and the trees fanned about his head in a rage.

Working the oars was a hopeless endeavor. As before, they had a mind of their own, but this time they were dangerously out of the water, and twice he had to duck to avoid being hit. He was completely out of control, probably for the first time in his life, and it occurred to him, oddly at this moment, "I'm at the mercy of the lake!"

As the whirlpool sucked his boat into its watery jaws, he resigned himself to a violent demise. "I'm going to die," he thought, almost matter-of-factly. Then panic struck him, and he worked the oars, again without success. "Dear God!" he cried, a mindless exclamation on the one hand, but a prayer also, from deep within him.

No sooner had he said it, there came a sound, like a baby's cry, but higher in pitch, and less insistent, as if someone were mourning the loss of a loved one from far away. His boat was within the walls of the swirling current now, but he dared not look up. He froze, staring straight down, and it seemed he could see the very center of the earth.

He heard the moaning again, and it was closer. Though he could not admit it to himself, he had heard this sound before. But now it was with him, beside him, above him. It was the monster of the lake, come to take him, to destroy him. Odd thoughts passed through his throttled brain as he sensed the monster about him. "I've been on its lake too long," came one thought. "It has come to reclaim me for its own, to make me a part of it," came another.

With the boat nearly submersed beneath the waves, Kelly decided to face his adversary. Breaking his movement in the water with an oar, he lifted his head and peered out from the center of the whirlpool. High above him, higher than the trees that graced the shore, the monster's massive head swayed against the moonlit sky. Kelly couldn't make out its face, but he could see the silhouette of its brow, and when it opened its mouth, its teeth protruded blackly toward him.

The head, held aloft by a long sinuous neck that dripped with slime and weeds, bobbed along freely and carelessly. The creature seemed oblivious to the tempest below.

Fear made Kelly defiant. He stretched to his full height for a moment and shouted, "Why should you care if I drown? You can have me for dinner, or as a drink, can't you!"

As if it understood his words, the creature opened wide its mouth and plunged wildly toward him. The boat was filled with water now, and Kelly was nearly up to his neck in the lake. Swept along in the whirling waves, he could no longer look up. But there was no need, for inches from his head was the mouth of the creature, which boasted of teeth the length of a man's hand. The monster hovered there, as if to study him, and huge strands of saliva rolled off its spiny tongue.

From deep within its throat came a low growl. As the old man faced this pit, he imagined this growl working its way up the neck. It came closer, growing to a fierce crescendo, until it was clearly in his face, no longer a growl, but a scream. Suddenly the head swooped into the air, then descended again, all the while sending out holy terror that all who heard might tremble.

Again, the monster threw its head upward, now toward the moon. It paused for a moment and wailed mournfully at the light, then that cry, like a baby's, and finally silence. Kelly heard another growl from on high, then the scream, and, like a storm, the monster crashed down upon him, its teeth bared and glittering under the moon's light. It was the old man who screamed now, and he flinched under the weight of the creature's head as it locked its teeth around his shoulders and back. He felt himself being ripped out of the whirlpool and flying high into the air. For a second, he could see the lake as if from an airplane. Then he was looking down, watching his boat succumb to the power of the current.

The creature had him full by his backside. His right shoulder was in great pain, for it was wrenched loose by the power of the monster's jaws. But, as far as he could tell, his limbs were intact. Hanging above the shoreline, like a bird, he stretched out his hands and wiggled his fingers to be sure he was all together.

Slowly he moved along the shoreline in the mouth of the great, dripping beast. He could feel its hot breath on his head, the working of its jaws against his back. But somehow he knew that it was not going to kill him. Dangling there, he felt in the creature the full power of nature, and his own fragile relationship with it. The monster brought him gently to his home and dropped him, from about fifteen feet above the shore, onto the soft sands, where he immediately collapsed.

The old man fell unconscious, regaining his senses perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes later. The creature was still with him, a giant black figure that seemed to fill the entire bay. Its head was near him, swaying back and forth gently, seemingly in time with the now peaceful rhythm of the waves. Kelly looked up and smiled, then reached out slowly to touch its ancient face. It was his only way to communicate with the creature, to thank it for saving him from the watery pit.

He imagined that it understood, for a sound, something like a purr, but deeper, arose from its throat. Kelly could see its eyes now, large orbs with dark, wide centers that seemed fraught with the loneliness of antiquity. They were fixed on him for a long time, full of what might have been wonder. Then they turned away, and the creature, moaning softly, began to slide back into the bay. The water rushed in upon it and bubbled around the body of the monster as its neck and head curled under the waves and disappeared. What remained formed a little island in the center of the bay, which gradually sank below the safe and dark waters.

The old man sat on the small beach staring into the night. He felt as if he would cry, but the shock of the event had left him numb. Pain shot through his right shoulder and spread throughout his body, but the great joy in his heart lessened the impact of his discomfort. He reached up to apply pressure to his bones and was surprised to find blood on his shirt. With a little exploration, he could make out puncture wounds in his skin that surely would remain as scars for the rest of his life, ample proof of his tale, if he were to tell it.

And that would be his next decision after all, for part of him wanted to run into town and shout out his news through the streets, while another part of him, one that seemed like the Indian woman and her stories of awestricken missionaries, thought to emulate the serpent of the waters and just keep quiet.

READING: Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand

LISTENING: Vampire Weekend

STUDYING: World War I

VIEWING: Sister Wendy

READING: He That Cometh, by Sigmund Mowinkel

VIEWING: Sons of Anarchy

WRITING: Sheol

VIEWING: Sons of Anarchy

WRITING: The Year of Mythical Living

LISTENING: Mendelssohn

FRIENDS OF SIRIANO ...

DESCENDRE

EVENTIZED

LARRY PRUITT

THE SIGNIFIERS

CONNOR ROSS