Night Has Fallen - sample chapter

Here’s an excerpt from the novel for you to sink your teeth into. I know authors usually give you the first chapter, but I’m not crazy like that. This is from somewhere near the beginning. Buy the whole thing on the right (formatting here is messed up, but you get the picture).

The dock provided ample opportunity to overlook the lake in all its vast, understated beauty. At this time of year the water is calm, interrupted occasionally by a spring swell or the localized dive of a long-necked crane. Sitting at the end of the dock long enough you might even catch a glimpse of a whooping crane—grus americana, according to the Manual on Northern Agriculture and Wildlife, left next to the toilet in Glen’s cottage—feeding on berries along the craggy shoreline. He might be a big bird, six, maybe seven feet tall. A truly majestic specimen with a shock of red feathers crowning his imperial skull. He’d strut proudly through the murky water, lifting his long legs high and exaggerating every step. Occasionally he would pluck a thin stickleback out of a footswell and swallow it whole. After chasing the fish with a bill full of berries, he would spread his ample wings and wrinkle the water with powerful thrusts, his black tips the last visible reminder of his visit vanishing beyond the trees.
Glen sat alone on a bench built for two dangling his toes in the water. He mused that the builder must have constructed both the dock and the bench during a hurricane using a rubber mallet, judging by the multitude and frequency of bent nails and splintered pine. The dock was likely intended as a fishing and swimming platform and maybe for mooring canoes or other small vessels, but in all likelihood was probably used for skinny dipping more than anything. Glen thrashed his bare feet in the cool water then pulled them out to examine the whitened flesh. The water was not quite warm enough for swimming, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he fell in. Or was pushed in. Or thrown in. All likely possibilities considering the company he was keeping. Maybe in the morning he’d dive in just to shock himself awake and this entire misadventure wouldn’t seem like such a lousy idea. Or he could get ridiculously drunk and go in completely dressed. Either or, whatever he had to do.
Ray spent the evening obsessing over plans and routes and supplies and food and other important adventuring decisions that real adventuring types have to concern themselves with. He had only himself to rely on because as far as the other guys were concerned this was it. They were living the adventure and they were going to continue to live it for another two weeks. They fell for it utterly completely, just the way he had planned it from the start. Maybe Lee did suspect something, but he had things with which to entertain himself and he wouldn’t be a nuisance. They couldn’t suspect the surprises he had in store. Soon they were going to embark on the real adventure, a journey they were never going to forget for as long as they lived. That would shut Glen up. And they had him and him alone to thank for it. Without him, Glen would be counting down the days to his wedding more miserable than he would have otherwise been, Mark would have spent nine nights out of ten killing time with Jack before the season began and Lee would be doing other things to various people. They were going to thank him, alright, even if they never said it. They’d thank him.

A light wind came up. Almost everyone was wearing at least a long tee or a sweater. Lee, as he was known to do then and again, was wearing a towel. After dinner he visited with the girls and told them the hot tub was working and it was a warm 102° and he would love some company. The girls agreed and it successfully ended any and all desire the others had of slipping into the fertilized water. Lee fiddled with the dials until there was just enough sucking and blowing for everyone to enjoy.

Mark hauled a thick log out of the woods and dropped it next to the fire, bracing it with rocks so it wouldn’t roll into the lake. He passed the expensive imported beer down the line and took a seat on a stump next to Buck and lost himself in the fire. He’d done a reasonable job getting it going, maybe a little too much paper and not enough kindling, but Buck was willing to give credit where credit was due. It had taken a little longer than it should have but now it was running where he could be proud, the flames dancing and cracking over the hot coals. Buck sipped his beer and said he liked how it tasted on his tongue and wondered if he could order it from the internet. One of the strangest phenomenons related to camping or hiking or trekking of any kind is the practice of buying imported beer. It’s a quizzical notion, to be sure. When at home, say on a Sunday afternoon during a professional football telecast or during a Saturday barbeque, most Canadians choose from the multitude of domestic beverages at their disposal. Canadians are widely known as the finest purveyors of lagers and draughts, save for perhaps the German, willing to be recognized and identified as nationals when far and abroad by a red leaf as strongly associated with a beer manufacturing corporation, or, say, ice hockey, than the Canadian flag. But send Canadians north of any city with a population greater than 200,000 and you are instantly whisked away to the land of clear bottles and laser-etched labels. Because Buck lived so far north the rule obviously did not apply to him, and, like stripper and taxes, there are always exceptions.
Ray finished his beer with one gregarious toke, preparing himself for the task at hand. He clapped his hands and asked for everyone to join him round the crackling inferno. Since they were already sitting around the fire they laughed. He passed around a bag of marshmallows and straightened coat hangars and passed them out as well.
“This story,” he said, in a low, coarse growl, “was told to me by an old fisherman while I was filming in Newfoundland a few years back.”
Glen groaned. “Haven’t we heard this one,” he said.
“You be quiet, I want to hear this story now,” Buck said, opening the floor for Ray to continue uninterrupted.
Ray set his chin in the way the best storytellers do, his eyes narrow and sharp, his shoulders hanging over the rest of his body. “This fisherman, he was a grizzled old chap, full of piss and vinegar, just like our Buck here, minus the stunning wit and imagination, of course.”
Buck raised his beer out of respect.
“But this man, this old, weathered fisherman, he had a story. Just like you or me might have a story of our own.”
Mark hit Ray in the face with a marshmallow. “How old is this guy? You’ve said old seven times.”
Ray shoved the marshmallow into his mouth then spit the puffed sugar into the fire. “Pretty old. To go along with being old he was very poor, and he worked hard hours for very little. He was on the water before sunrise and was never home before dark. But the fisherman also counted himself among the luckiest men in the world because, by some intervening grace, he had married the prettiest girl in the entire village. The fisherman and his wife were very much in love, but she very badly wanted to have children. It broke the fisherman’s heart because he knew they were too poor to support anyone other than themselves. Still, there are some things that are easy to control and some that are not. When the fisherman found out that his wife was pregnant and that she had been keeping it from him for months, he was very angry. She gave birth late one night and was too weak to stop her husband from taking the child. She begged and she pleaded with him, but it was to no avail. The fisherman knew that the only way they could survive was by giving up the child, so the man took the baby boy down to the lake—a lake very much like this one, so it is told—and he drowned it.”
Pam gasped and her hands went to her mouth. “He drowned the baby?”
Glen rolled his eyes. “How would you know that the lake was anything like this one? You’ve never been here before.”
Ray ignored Glen and looked into Pam’s eyes. “He did. He drowned that baby even though it pained him. It was the most difficult thing he had ever had to do because he loved his wife and he did not wish to hurt her, but to keep them alive and together he would do anything. And so it went on like that, year after year the woman would give birth, and each time the fisherman would throw the newborn into the river.
“On a wet spring morning the woman gave birth to the couple’s fifth son. As he had done with all the sons that came before, the fisherman took the baby down to the lake. His wife, still weak and bleeding from giving birth, followed him, begging and pleading with him to save their son. But the fisherman knew that he had no other choice. To save the child meant certain death for all of them and he loved his wife too much to watch her die a slow and terrible death. But there was something different in the way she begged this time. The woman said that she could not bear to watch another of her sons drown yet he paid her no heed. When the fisherman threw the child into the lake his wife followed, though she did not know how to swim. The fisherman tried to save his wife, but she was swept under the icy water by some unseen force and she drowned as all her sons before her had drowned. That night the fisherman sat by the shore, haunted by what he had done. He loved his wife. He did not know whether he could go on living without her. He sat there for hours, unable to think, not knowing what to do, until the moon was high in the clear sky. When he finally looked out over the lake he could not believe his eyes. Walking across the water was the spirit of his wife. The fisherman was terrified, but the spirit was unable to see him. He called to her but she did not answer. He realized that the spirit was searching for all the sons she had lost while living. The fisherman begged her to see him, to let him apologize for all the wrongs he had committed, but it was no use. She was bent to a singular purpose and it was as if he were the one made of mist.
“Night after night she returned, searching without hope for their dead sons. Soon the fisherman became angry and longed for peace. He begged her to return to the spirit realm, but she could not hear him. She could hear nothing, or was unwilling to listen. She was stricken beyond all hope and would tear at her hair and wail when the sun rose and she was swept away with the freshness of morning.
“A year passed and the fisherman was driven mad by the horrible wailing. On the first dawn of the second spring he grabbed his axe and jumped into the lake to kill the spirit because he could take the torture no longer. But like his wife he could not swim, and the current, stronger than it had been in many years, swept him away, and he drowned. He returned as a spirit himself, doomed to stalk the shore during the daylight hours, swept away when the spirit of his wife appeared in the nighttime. Some believe that on the coolest nights she can still be heard—the wailing woman, as she is called—a spectre over the water, screaming heartache for her doomed sons, one for every spring and a husband she’ll never see again.” He picked a leaf from the bottom of his shoe and put it in the fire. “That’s the story,” he said.
Glen made snoring sounds and Pam shoved him off his seat. “I thought it was a very sad story,” she said.
Buck smiled and nodded in agreement as if the had story touched him deeply. He looked about ready to cry so Pam changed seats and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “Buck, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing, darling. I’m fine. It’s just that I’ve heard that story before. Told exactly like that, too, in the very same manner. It breaks my heart every time because they say that my place is built over land that fisherman and his wife lived on. I swear that I’ve heard that heartbroken woman wailing in the early hours of the morn, even though I know it’s crazy and just a story. It ain’t supposed to be, I know that, but you watch, just before the sun comes up over those trees down there, you might catch a fleeting glimpse of something that I swear is not of this earth.”
He could not have looked more forlorn if he tried so she wrapped her arms around him and gave him a big hug.
Mark cocked a sideways glance at Buck and gave Glen a shot in the arm. “Are you buying any of this,” he said.
“The old man might be telling the truth, but this is way past anything Ray’s ever come up with on his own,” Glen said, half-joking.
Ray threw a marshmallow at Glen but he batted it away.
“You’re right, you’re totally right about that. He’s certainly not smart enough to come up with something like that on his own. It must be true,” Mark added.
“Piss off. Who are you people to say it is not true, if Buck, the most genuine and honest man I have met in my life, agrees with me? He says it’s a true story, and I’m inclined to believe him.”
“He didn’t say it was a true story, he said he’s heard the story before,” Pam said.
“Thank you for that,” Ray said.
“Besides, you said the current swept them all away. Lakes don’t have currents. Rivers have currents,” she said.
Ray’s story was blown out of the water and he was caught in the act. He shook his head and joked that he wanted to toss Pam in the river and Glen did a little dance and pumped his fist. Ray didn’t mind being caught in an untruth, but he would have appreciated being able to finish the performance.
“Whatever. You guys are just being stupid,” he said, trailing off and looking into the woods. “Did you hear that,” he asked, standing and stepping towards the trees.
Pam tried to say something but he quieted her with a wave of his hand. He held it out, extended for dramatic effect, and craned his neck and turned his head to listen.
“Get bent,” Glen said. “It’s not funny anymore.”
“It was never funny,” Mark said.
“Shut up. I swear I heard something.”
“You didn’t hear anything. Have another drink.”
Buck stood and the shadows of flame danced across his face and he took off his hat and crouched over. “Best not to go messing in the woods at night, friend. We’ve got our fair share of bears in these parts this time of year and we sure are nowhere close enough to a hospital should you find yourself in harms way.”
With his piece said Buck borrowed Pam’s hangar and cooked himself a marshmallow. He peeled off the charred shell before sliding the moist candy off the metal and popping it into his mouth. It was too hot and burned him but he didn’t want to seem rude so he puffed his cheeks and chewed rapidly.
“I don’t think it’s a bear,” Ray said. He inched closer to the woods and pushed back a branch as if doing so would open the night before him, cold and black and moist. The branch had the texture of ragged denim. Poplar? It was hard to tell. He didn’t really have a clue. He wandered further until the shadows no longer played on his back and he was lost to the darkness.
“You’re an idiot,” Glen called after him.
“Does he take everything this far,” Pam asked.
“Pretty much. You get used to it.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s any less annoying,” Mark said.
“You are correct, sir.” Glen passed another round and he took the cooler over to the hot tub and handed Lee and the girls a beer each. He wondered if they were wearing bathing suits. He couldn’t see any straps.
“Where’d Ray go,” Lee asked.
“Which one is Ray,” asked Tracy.
“He’s the dumb one,” Glen said.
“You boys are mean. Isn’t he your friend?”
“Good friend.”
“He’s my best friend,” Glen said.
“So where did he go? Was he telling a story?”
“Yeah. He thinks he heard a bear in the woods.”
“I hope he gets eaten by a bear.”
Tracy she splashed Lee in the face. “Be nice.”
Lee slid under the water until only the top part of his face was exposed and he was breathing out of his nose. Just like an iceberg. Then he submerged himself completely and was lost in the jets. A moment later Tracy yelped in surprise and he came up out of the water blowing bubbles between her legs.