Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Aila
The ferryman has to be a hundred years old, but that doesn’t stop my mother’s charm offensive. Gripping the helping hand he holds out to her, she jumps onto the deck while I pay off the taxi driver.
“What a darling little boat! Hi there. I’m Amelia O’Hara. We came all the way from Winnipeg, can you believe it? We’re booked in for the whole summer.”
“Monty Hubble, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”
He goes to put Mom’s suitcase on one of the wooden pallets where it will be safe from any bilge water, so it’s my mom who helps me climb aboard. “Cute little setup, isn’t it?” She’s in a good mood. “Where’s everyone else? I was told the inn can sleep up to twenty-five?”
Monty fiddles with the ignition and pushes the start button. The outboard motor burps into action. He answers after negotiating a route heading north from Buffalo Point Marina, shouting over the noise of the motor.
“Yep, you’ll be the first to arrive. Next batch comes the following week. Can I have a look at your passports, please? We’ll be crossing international waters soon.”
Mother sulks. She hates anyone seeing her official date of birth. “How about you just check my daughter’s? Can you believe I’m old enough to have a twenty-six-year-old daughter?”
“I’m twenty-eight, Mom,” I remind her.
She frowns me down, reluctantly giving Monty a quick look at her passport after placing her thumb over her DOB. “You don’t share our personal details with anyone on Landslide, do you, Monty?”
Ambling back to the steering wheel, Monty stares ahead as the deep blue waters slosh and slap the side of the boat.
“Just need to set a face to the name, Ma’am.
Thank you.” Fumbling with one hand, he finds two clipboards with pens tied to the clip with string.
“Please fill in the forms and sign them. I’ll be your witness, if that’s okay.
Don’t skip the legal mumbo-jumbo. It’s kinda important. ”
Scrawling her signature at the bottom of her form, my mom hands it back to Monty. “I trust you,” she tells the ferryman, shooting him a flirty smile.
The only sign he gives that he heard her is when Monty reminds my mom to initial at the bottom of every page. Pouting and heaving a sigh, she does as he asks.
Damn. I would love to enjoy the Lake of the Woods scenery, but I guess one of us should read the waiver form.
“This indemnity applies to all guests and visitors, be they a casual visitor or overnight guest, to wit: any person using the facilities, staying at the inn, or participating in any of the activities…”
“Blah, bloody blah.” I start to skim over the dense legal wording. I can’t help myself; it is so tedious.
“I have been advised of the risk. I am aware of the risks and the implications of taking them. I accept that I will be exposed to considerable—”
“Er… Mom? I think you should read this. It makes Landslide sound dangerous.”
Holding onto her sunhat to block out the sunset’s piercing rays, Mom doesn’t even look at me. “Just sign the bloody form, Aila. They’re all the same. You’re like those flipping appliance insurance salesmen at the co-op.”
I let the pen fall out of my hand. It swings from the clipboard like a pendulum.
“Monty, can you please tell me a little bit about Landslide before we dock?” And before I sign that waiver. “Is it safe? I mean, after reading that indemnity form…” I have doubts, is what I want to say. You bet your ass I am having serious doubts!
Not taking his eyes off the water, Monty hems and haws.
“Er… I’ve been ferrying these waters for many years, Miss. Never seen any boating accidents of any kind. When we get a storm warning around these parts, we take ‘em to heart. That’s why the chalet inn is only open during the summer. The creek water is lovely and warm. The weather’s calm.”
“Oh, pay her no mind, Monty. She’s just being an old poop. Tell us about the locals.” My mom giggles. “Do they add any particular flavor to the mix?”
Monty seems to be counting off the local population in his head before answering.
“Well, they got the Heiners. They own the general store. Vince Pruitt. He lives at the marina. Then there’s Mikey Farmer. He married one of the visitors who stayed at the inn a few years ago.”
On hearing this, my mom gives me a thumbs-up sign and cheers quietly. Meanwhile, Monty continues.
“Mr. Elliot lives in the woods close by the jetty. His wife passed last year. Very sad. And there’s Jerry Steele. He lives behind the innkeeper’s house. Ben Magoo is the innkeeper’s neighbor. Nice fella.”
“Innkeeper?” What a strange job title to award oneself. So old school.
“Aye, well, the innkeeper is Miz Luna Blackwood. Proper nice lady, she is. Runs the inn with her partner, Shadow Sylva.”
Monty smacks his forehead and grins. “Oh, I forgot! There’s Carson Reagan, the mechanic. He fixes the MC’s motorcycles. Keeps the engines ticking over.”
The lake water tilts the boat suddenly, forcing me to hang onto the bench with both hands. Is this my wake-up call?
“Motorcycle Club? Isn’t that what MC stands for?”
Interrupting me, my mom wrinkles her nose. All her pleasure at hearing how many single men live on the island evaporates. “No, thank you. A bunch of dirty, grease monkey drug dealers?”
The ferryman keeps his face neutral. “The Midnight Riders aren’t that kind of club, ma’am. They operate like Landslide’s law and order.” Seeing my mom’s disgusted face, he chuckles and continues. “And judge, jury, and executioner.”
Crossing her arms, my mom huffs. “I read the online news. I know what Hells Angels are like. And there is no way you can convince me that having a gang of bikers hanging around my hotel is not bad news.”
“They stay separate from the visitors for the most part, ma’am,” Monty explains. “The chances are you will never even know they are there except when it’s sundown at the bar.”
“None of the online reviews mention bikers, Mom,” I remind her. “And your little sewing circle of single ladies have never steered you wrong before.”
All I can think about is that white t-shirt with the black logo. The mountain and the moon. And those two words: Midnight Son.
Oh my God. Is it even possible? Midnight Riders—Midnight Son. If that man lives on Landslide, I don’t know what I should do.
Part of me wants to slap the crap out of him for leaving the bar that night without so much as saying goodbye. And the other part of me wants to run and hide. Because that raunchy dream I had about him was dirtier than any biker could ever hope to be.
Thank God my mother is so self-absorbed that she doesn’t even notice how silent I am.
“Uh-oh.” Monty Hubble looks to the west as the pink-gold rays of sunset are blocked out. “I don’t understand how that crept up so quick.”
Following the direction he’s looking, Mom and I get a nasty shock. Huge, billowing, yellowish-gray clouds are assembling in a canopy over our heads. The balmy temperature plummets.
“This makes no sense…” Monty takes it like a personal insult that the weather has changed. The lake water heaves and churns as the wind picks up. The boat rocking from side to side goes from mellow to violent in a moment.
A large wave slops over the side of the ferry. Mom screams as the water forms a tidal pool around her shoes.
“Get below deck, ladies!” Monty yells at us over his shoulder as he wrestles to keep the steering wheel on course. “There’re buckets under the table.”
My mom has already begun to stagger down the ladder. Grabbing my backpack, I brace myself to let go of the handle. Widening my stance, I get ready to make a dash for the cabin door.
And then I hear it.
The booming, banging vibration seems to fill the air around us. It sounds like someone dragging a heavy piece of furniture across the floor of a great hall, only amplified a million times.
I’ve never heard the sound before, but I know what the strangely eerie thundering is.
Skyquake.
The reverberating drone continues to the point where I don’t think I can take it anymore. It is powerful beyond measure but terrifying at the same time. Because the sound has a plaintive, emotional quality to it; like heaven sharing a sad, lonely story with the earth.
The silence is deafening when the clamorous moaning ends. The thundering creaking and groaning just stops—it doesn't fade.
The storm has passed.
“Woo!” Monty wipes his forehead and tries to smile. “I’ve only heard that a few times before, but it never fails to scare the be-jay-sus out of me.”
“Is the sound localized?” Even though my heart is in my mouth, I am desperate to know more. Throwing down my backpack, I sit on the bench.
Monty picks up his travel guide personality again as if the skyquake never happened. “Landslide is the epicenter of skyquake activity, Miss. Folks come from all over hoping to hear it. Guess you got lucky.”
“I better go see how my mom is.” I think I heard her using the bucket. Amelia O’Hara does not travel well in boats.
“Don’t forget to sign your waiver,” Monty reminds me.
Weaving back to the bench, I pick up the clipboard.
“I acknowledge that any assistance I receive from the Indemnified Parties is done without any admission of liability or fault on their part, and is done purely as a show of goodwill and empathy.”
Why would I need any assistance from anyone on Landslide? Sounds like legal overkill to me.
Midnight Riders—Midnight Son.
I sign the form.
The ferry approaches the jetty at tortoise speed. It’s twilight, so maybe that is the reason why a lump of trepidation sticks in my throat. Isolated holiday destinations do not look appealing when the last rays of daylight fade to gray—especially this one.
Landslide is not at all like the attractive tourist spot it is meant to be from the online reviews. Nowhere do they mention that sullen, oil-slick waters surround an ominous bulge of land in the middle of a wild, remote creek.
Nothing is written about the utter isolation, either; hooting waterbirds rustling in the reeds break the stillness. And the bleak cawing of ravens in the pine thickets is just creepy. There is something wrong about the way the water clings to the muddy outcrop, turning the hill slopes into slime.
“Well.” My mom gives one of those coughs as if she’s clearing her throat. “They don’t bother rolling out the welcome wagon, do they?”
Monty ignores her, too busy judging the distance from the ferry to the jetty so as not to bump into it in the dark.
Old tires tied to the jetty cushion the boat docking.
The bumping and grinding scares the ravens out of the trees.
The sound of their wings flapping away into the night is not a comforting one.
He doesn’t bother roping the boat. Keeping the outboard motor running, the ferryman heaves our luggage onto the jetty. “I won’t drop the gangplank for you ladies. There's a whole lotta mud on the banks. Best if you clamber out onto the jetty direct.”
Bewildered, my mom blethers. “B-but there’s no one here. We don’t know where to go. These cases are heavy, and we weren’t told to bring flashlights…”
After climbing out of the ferry onto the jetty, I extend my hand down to help my mom. Dithering, she squeaks and puffs as she scrambles onto the rough decking. “My pants! They got mud on them. Yuk! And my hands—”
“Someone should be coming around any time now.” Monty flicks the boat into reverse as the ferry backs away from the jetty. “Happy holidays.”
He turns on the searchlight mounted on the cabin roof as the ferry putters into the night. The illumination turns the water a sickly yellow as the engine noise gets further away.
Mom and I look at each other, our eyes round orbs of frustration.
“For fuck’s sake,” I say it for the both of us. “This is a shit show.”
“It’s so spooky.” Mom looks around, hugging her arms for warmth. “I get why only men would want to live here now. This place gives me the yips.”
And yet…
Standing there with nothing but nature around us is oddly soothing.
We can hear frogs plopping into the water; their mating calls sound like little clicks and pops.
An invisible wind sweeps through the treetops, making them toss lazily from side to side.
A constant backdrop of birdsong fills the peaceful void.
Mom takes my hand as the last hint of gray leaves the night sky. Her sunhat lies on the jetty like a fallen leaf.
“Should we start walking and see where it takes us?”
I can’t think of a better metaphor for life. But before I can bend to pick up my suitcase, a sound outside of the natural realm erupts.
Such a distinctive noise. A deep bass, rumbling roar. The steady syncopated rhythm of pistons pumping.
“I think someone’s coming.”
My mom’s hearing is shot from too much clubbing in the nineties, but she tilts her head towards the forest to listen.
Thundering towards the jetty, we see a Harley-Davidson motorcycle coming down the lane. Rolling to a stop with the headlamp facing us and the engine still running, I am blinded and deafened at the same time.
Wincing and holding up my hand to block out the glare, I see the rider’s distinctive shape. Tall, wind-whipped hair, his legs straddling a big machine; he doesn’t need to reintroduce himself for me to know who it is.
You bastard! You left Harry’s Saloon and never came back. And then you slipped into my fantasies like a dark nightmare…
I can hear him in my head.
So, are you coming?
Forgetting my case, my backpack, and my mom, I walk to the motorcycle slowly.
The Rider extends his hand. The tips of our fingers touch briefly and, for the first time in my life, I hop onto the back of a motorbike.
The leather seat is cold underneath my Lycra leggings, forcing me to shuffle closer to his body for warmth.
“And where do you think you are going, Aila?” Mom is so mad, she forgets that she doesn’t want anyone to know I’m her daughter. “That man could be a serial killer!”
I feel his hard torso shake with short laughter. “Heh.”
His dark sense of humor makes the motorbike feel like home.
My hands snake around his lean hips and I lean my cheek against his leather jacket.
“Ben Magoo is coming to fetch the baggage now, Miz O’Hara. Catch a lift up to the inn with him.” His voice penetrates the night, rising above the loudness of the engine.
Revving the bike to let me know I must hold on for dear life, Theron Rebane carries me away from my mother with abrupt haste.