“Like taking candy from a baby,” Maurice said with satisfaction, as the ranger’s jeep slid around a corner and out of sight.
“What?” I asked. “He pulled us over, checked our day passes, and waved us on. We didn’t exactly have to lie here.”
“He asked if we were here for business or pleasure and we told him it was a vacation,” said Maurice, his beard bristling smugly.
“Oh whatever,” I said. There was no arguing with him when he was like this. Determined to be happy about something.
***
The site had been well-chosen: tucked around three quiet bends and at the farthest end of a no-canoeing lake. No traffic. No witnesses.
Thank god there were no witnesses.
“Do you HAVE to wear that thing?”
Maurice swept a hand over his… garment. “I’m the host! The narrator! People expect a certain level of personality.”
“That’s not a personality, that’s the visual equivalent of a psychotic break from reality. My god, my eyes hurt even when I’m not looking at it.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Even the BUTTONS clash, that’s what’s wrong with it.” Puce and peppermint swirl should not mix.
“Oh, fie. Now are you ready?”
“Fine.”
“Steady?”
“Sure.”
“And… go!”
I flipped the switch on the camera and Maurice’s smile got even wider. It almost made it out of his beard.
“Welcome to the private lives of North American lake monsters. Today we’ll be taking a look at that most reclusive of species: Dermapteracetacea ogopogo – or, as it’s more commonly known, the ‘pogo. Originally and famously known from Okanagan Lake, the ‘pogos are the largest living animals known to live in the continent. Assuming, of course, that you can find them. Today, we’re here at Lake – edit in this thing’s name in post – to do just that. Cut.”
I turned off the camera. “Really? Already making work for me?”
“Oh it’ll be fine, we can run that last line over panning footage of the lake. Now let’s get the canoe cracking.”
“We’re going canoeing on a backwoods lake you don’t even know the name of?”
“It’s safe, it’s safe, it’s safe. They wouldn’t let people go back here if it wasn’t safe.”
“We’re trying to get footage of a lake monster.”
“And that’s perfectly safe so long as you don’t agitate it! Very peaceable creatures, ‘pogos. We’re far too small and bony to be in their prey range. Now, if we were mooses, that’d be another story.”
“Moose,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“The plural of moose is moose.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, who’s the documentary host here you or me? Now put these oars away and help me get this stupid canoe off the car.”
“Paddles.”
“Whatever.”
“This,” I said, “is exactly why we stopped dating.”
***
It was a nice lake, I had to admit. Still, deep, heavily-wooded. You could almost hear the air breathe it was so quiet.
“Lake – fix it in post – is typical of ‘pogo habitat: deep, stagnant waters. The lack of oxygen at the bottom, which would choke any organism with gills, is of no account to the air-breathing ‘pogo, providing it with a quiet, empty place to spend its days in serene solitude. When it isn’t eating, it’s dreaming. Cut. Tom, you’re not aiming the camera at my face properly.”
“I’m paddling,” I said.
“Can’t you do that one-handed?”
“No.”
“Just let us drift then. Come on. Time is money.”
“We’ve never sold a single copy of this stuff.”
“And the public thanks us for providing them with quality scientific information free of charge! Now pick up that camera and get a nice long panning shot of Lake whatsitsname.”
I sighed, but I also did what I was told. Character flaw.
“In modern times, lakes like these have acquired another valuable trait for ‘pogos: they are obscure, and as such protect them from illicit hands. The organs of a ‘pogo are worth very nearly their weight in gold, which, considering the animal’s size, is quite something. A single successful hunt can let a poacher team retire for life. Here, in the backwaters of national parks, under legal protection and the blanket of obscurity, are one of the last refuges of these gentle giants. Cut, let’s break out the hydrosonic thingy.”
The hydrosonic thingy was broken out. It looked like a headset wrapped in six layers of waterproof plastic and it was exactly that. Maurice tossed it overboard with a merry splosh.
“How deep do we place it?” I asked.
“Until you hit bottom, then a little back.”
“Right. How deep is this lake?”
“How should I know?”
“Did you plan ANYTHING about this trip? Jesus, are there even any lake monsters here?”
Maurice looked affronted. “Certainly! Probably. It’s worth a shot. Have a listen on the hydrosonic thingy.”
I switched it on. Nothing but the low slow gurgle of water.
“It could be dreaming,” said Maurice. “They’re quiet when they dream.”
“Maurice,” I said, conveying as much hatred and menace as I could manage in that name, “this was my first weekend off in four months.”
“Yes, and-”
“And you said you’d planned everything.”
“From a certain-”
“And that it wouldn’t be like last time.”
“Well –”
“And that we’d be getting paid.”
“Public recognition and exposure are-”
“I quit,” I said.
“I – you what?”
“I quit. I quit, I quit. I quit. I quit. I quit quit quit quit.” I picked up the paddles and began to heave back to shore. “I’m getting out and I’m putting this away and I’m driving back home and if you want to come that’s fine but if you’d rather stay here I’m not stopping you. We’re six last straws deep and that’s more than enough for any human being to bear.”
“Wait-”
“Nope. Not waiting.”
“Liste-”
“Not listening. Not being reasonable, not going to sit and listen to you go on and on and ON god this is EXACTLY why we broke up, you never ever do anything but talk! How’s it feel, huh? How’s it feel to be talked over?”
“Look-”
“Not getting a word in edgewise? Not getting a say in what’s said? Oh, no wonder you wanted to be the narrator, it’s a chance to be the only voice making any noise! Just talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk!”
The canoe touched land, and as I turned to face it the soft, buttery-shiny metal of a gun’s barrel gently kissed my nose.
“Hey,” said the poacher, ten thousand miles away at the other end of the weapon. “Please step out of the canoe, okay? But maybe put your hands on your head first.” Somewhere behind him four other men were heaving a heavy outboard off a trailer attached to an SUV, a nice homey vehicle that should’ve held a soccer mom and dad and two point five suburban spawn.
“Alright,” I said. Behind me, Maurice made an insufferably put-upon sigh. “Are you going to shoot my friend?”
“Not if you shut up and do what you’re told.”
“No, I mean, please. Please do that.”
“Excuse me?” asked Maurice. “Nobody’s shooting anybody. Or anything, for that matter. Why do you think you can get away with this? You can’t possibly smuggle a carcass that big past the rangers.”
“Well,” said the park ranger, stepping out of the SUV, “it all depends who’s asking.”
***
“You won’t get away with this,” said Maurice.
The park ranger raised his eyebrows. They’d given us the courtesy of not tying our hands, but that was a level of politeness you could afford when two separate guns were pointed at us from several large, plaid-clad men. “You keep saying that.”
“It’s still true.”
“Haven’t explained how.”
“Well… you won’t get away with this.”
The park ranger sighed and looked at me. “He always like this?”
“Yes.”
“Well, at least you won’t have to deal with it much longer,” he said, cheerily. “Pat, kill the engine, we’re here.”
Middle of the lake. Which, I realized, was pretty much where me and Maurice had been.
“So there IS a ‘pogo here?” asked Maurice.
“Yep,” said the ranger.
“Well, that’s a surprise. We couldn’t find anything.”
I blinked.
“What?” asked the largest poacher, who was apparently Pat, from his position at the engine.
“Not a single sound. It was a promising site, but no dice.”
“There’s one here,” said the ranger.
“Nope. Not a sliver of a trace.”
“You’re full of shit,” said the ranger.
“He’d better be,” said Pat. “You said this was a confirmed sighting.”
“It is!”
“It is,” agreed Maurice. “Sure thing for nothing.”
“Shut up.”
“Yeah, shut up,” said Pat. “You have no idea how much money this kind of firepower costs. We’re not gonna be wasting our time here on anything less than a sure thing.”
“The hydrosonic thingy didn’t pick up so much as a sneeze,” said Maurice. “If there was a ‘pogo here, it’s long gone. That’s the trouble with relying on eyewitness accounts: they’re overeager. Some folks’ll call any old log a lake monster sighting.”
“Shut up,” said Pat. But there was doubt in it now.
“They’re full of shit,” said the ranger.
“Shut up,” repeated Pat. “And you throw their hydrosonic thingy overboard. Let’s make sure before we drop the depth charges. I ain’t spending six grand of explosives on dead lakebottom.”
The ranger opened his mouth, saw something he didn’t like in Pat’s eyes, and did as he was told. For the second time that day I watched the little plastic-wrapped, lead-weighted bundle sink with a splish.
“I’m not hearing anything,” said one of the other poachers, fiddling with our receiver. “Just gurgles.”
“You’ve got it set on broadcast, not receive,” said Maurice helpfully.
“Shut up,” said the poacher. But he flipped the lever anyways.
Dead silence filled the air in a progressively ugly way.
“So,” said Pat in the very casual way of someone so angry their teeth were eating each other. “Sure thing, wasn’t it?”
The ranger’s hand twitched towards his belt. The gun there looked a lot smaller than Pat’s rifle, although that could’ve been because the long gun was in the poacher’s hands already. Amazing how much bigger weapons get when they’re aimed at you. “It was,” he said. “It is!”
“I’m not hearing anything.”
“Of course you’re not hearing anything! They’re quiet!”
“Uh-huh. This a sting?”
“No! I’m in it as much as you are!
“For a promotion, more like.”
“I’m not!”
“Prove it.”
“I’ll shove them overboard myself,” said the ranger. “We need the bait anyways.”
“Excuse me?” asked Maurice.
“Shut up. And that’s proving nothing if there’s nothing there to eat them. Nah, you want to prove you’re in?” Shoot ‘em first.”
“Excuse me?” asked Maurice.
“Shut up!” shouted the ranger. “Where the hell do you get off, listening to a couple of idiots over me! I’ve put my goddamned career on the line for you morons, I planned this, and-”
“Excuse me,” said Maurice to me, “but please be very quiet.”
“Shut up!” yelled Pat.
“Shut up!” shouted the ranger.
“What?” I asked.
Then something the size of a freight train hit the boat and everything was very complicated for a while.
***
It was easy to be quiet. Everyone else was making so much noise for a while that all I had to do was tread water until the lake was smooth and placid again. That, and try not to scream.
“I thought,” I managed to get out as I pulled a lifejacket off what had once been a torso, “that you said they were peaceable creatures?”
“Oh they are,” said Maurice in all earnestness. He’d already taken his own lifejacket off the ranger. “Very harmless, wouldn’t hurt a fly. Unless it woke them up, of course, which isn’t surprising when it got an earful of all that name-calling getting put on broadcast. Quite ill-tempered when their dreams get interrupted, let me tell you. Why do you think we used a canoe instead of something with a motor?”
“I thought you were just being cheap.”
“Well, it would also save on funeral costs, so in a manner of speaking, you were correct. That outboard was my big hint that we were dealing with some profoundly ignorant characters – quite shameful in a park employee, too. That’s the trouble with hunting prey that lets you retire after one harvest: nobody successful stays in the business long enough to teach the up-and-comers anything useful. I certainly think they’ve learned their lesson.”
“Not going to do them much good like this,” I said. More pieces were starting to bob their way to the surface.
“Educational moments: created by the individual, enjoyed by the masses. That’s exactly what a documentary is all about, Tom. Do you think you could get some footage of this?”
“I dropped the camera.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” said Maurice.
And there was another argument after that, but it was all in good spirits no matter how hot the language got. It was amazing how determined to be happy a little sudden death could make you.