The Preacher Has Gone Fishing Chapter 12 Conclusion

 "THE PREACHER HAS GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER TWELVE OF TWELVE

As a child, he had listened to the traditional tales popular, of an older Scotland, from his grandmother, whom he spent a great deal of time while his parents tended the farmstead. The Preacher, recalled sitting in a narrow-backed wooden chair, at hearthside, while his grandmother knitted away most of the afternoon, when not tending some cookery chore for the family's supper. She spun amazing tales of intrigue, ghosts, hobgoblins and bandy-legged wee beasties that bounded through the moor on Scotland's famous misty evenings. But that was a long time ago, he would ruminate, still with clear vision of the crackling, warm, comforting fire, where he resided looking at old books he was afforded by his grandmother, and listening when she told stories about the enchantments she had known as a child growing up in the same farm lands. Her loud, gruff voice, heavily laden with old country accent, such that he even misunderstood much of what she said, seemed on its own, full of intimate enchantment, and she could imitate the voice of a haggard witch, such that it would send a shiver up his spine; as if the hag was sitting fireside with him. But they were stories. Folk tales. As old as time, and a believable as one was gullible. Still, they had a place in a nation's culture, as all good fiction.

The Preacher had been sound asleep for hours, when the rattling about the room began, as it had on other nights at the Muskoka lakeside Lodge. At first, the strange sounds began influencing his dreams, but soon enough, with a couple of loud banks, he raised one eye-lid and then the other, freeing them of the rigors of sleep. The Preacher, unsure of what was happening, lay still on the bed, residing on his back, but with his head turned to where he perceived the noise was coming from. Just as it had before, the occasional thuds, banks and swishing sounds, were coming from the corner, where he had placed his fishing rod. It reminded him that the robber may have returned, to steal the rod, having been thwarted previously, by someone coming down the hall from another room. He couldn't see much in the low light, except the crack between the door and the jam, allowed enough illumination from the hall, so that he could see the back of the rocking chair, where once again he had thrown his heavy jacket. He could see his fishing rod in the corner, but the noise was definitely active from somewhere just below. Then, all of a sudden, the rocking chair began to move on its own, and the tip of the fishing rod began to wobble, as if something was nibbling on the hook; which was covered with a piece of black cork. He could only think of this manifestation, in terms of those old stories of childhood come back to haunt him. As a religious man this was all very perplexing. There had to be a logical explanation. He just couldn't think of one, as he lay on the bed, the covers pulled up tight under his chin.

As he lay there silently, trying not to make his breathing obvious, to whatever was playing with his sensitivities at that moment. The thumping was intensifying, and the rocker began moving violently at times, and it had actually began to shift tight into the corner, where the rod had been leaning. He could no longer see it, in the thin line of light from the partly opened door. There was the sudden sound of a quick-step footfall coming up the hall, as it had the other evening. Was there a connection. He heard a voice this time, and the footfall stopped just outside his door. His heart was still. The door was being pushed open, and all he could think of in that fraction of time, was that there was a robbery underway. Right under his nose. Or was it something supernatural that was moving about in the darkness of his room? How would he address the situation. Appear to remain asleep and allow whatever it was, to manifest their objective uninterrupted? Possibly there would be consequences yelling out, or rising from the bed to confront the entity manipulating the furniture in his chambers.

The noise and movement of the rocking chair, would stop for a moment or two. He saw the door open slightly, and then close again to a slight crack, allowing in a limited line of hall light. Then it would open again, and he heard a faint whispering from this vicinity, but it wasn't for his benefit. Then there would be a series of bangs and thumps, and the sound of something sliding across the wooden floor. Then, it would all settle down, except for the whispering. How many ghosts were visiting his room? What did they want with him? It sounded as if one was chasing he other, and jumping on and off the rocking chair, because even his jacket had fallen off the back onto the floor. He heard the light thud, and upon looking, he could see the bare slats of the rocker-back. There was all kinds of strange goings-on happening near him, but he was blind to most of it, at this time. He knew that it was getting to the point, of intrusion, that he would soon have to muster the courage to sit up in bed, and demand an audience with whatever was causing the calamity. The Preacher planned it out, and was patient about how the eventual confrontation would end the assault on his solitude.

The noises continued, and the pauses and resulting silence, were becoming predictable. Then he would think there was someone crawling near his bed, and the whispering got closer. Whatever, or whoever was responsible for this blatant invasion of privacy, was now within touching distance to the bedstead. He felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead. At almost the precise moment, he was going to sit up full in bed, and yell at the perpetrator to cease and desist the haunting of this room, there was the clear sound of scampering, knocking and thumping headed to the door of his room. In fact, the door was pulled open with another thump, as if the intruder had run into it head first, closing it initially, before it was pulled open a split second later. He had been patient long enough. The Preacher pulled all his ambition and sense of right together, into one ball of hurled energy, sitting up while demanding the intruder show him, or herself to him in the lamplight at the doorway. Initially, there was a sort of shocked silence. Even the hobgoblins, if that's what they were, had ceased to frolic, and there was no longer any whispering, thuds, bumps or bangs off the furniture. The Preacher studied the door, which had opened much wider by this point, and apparently by itself, and soon noticed a black hump in the corner that he couldn't identify as an out of place piece of furniture. And it slowly began to rise, as if it was an entity suddenly getting bigger and more menacing. Soon, it had shown itself as a large, dark form of a creature unknown. It had the initial appearance of a man, without arms, the way the light was shining on the subject as a silhouette.

As the figure moved into the backlight, to pacify the alarmed Preacher, still with the covers held up to his chest, he could see more clearly that it was the outline of a man, and it was obvious his arms were tight to his chest, as if hiding something from his view. "Step back into the light, I tell you," yelled the Preacher, markedly pleased he had been right about the fact of an intrusion of his privacy. This was no ghost or hobgoblin. Possibly it was a robber, but what had he been looking for, and what weapon might he be stowing below the area of visibility? The intruder obliged, and began stepping back slowly, and turning sideways to the light from the hall, instantly revealing the true outline and even the character of what turned out to be a duo of intruders.

There in the illumination of the several oil lamps of the corridor, stood the Lodge Proprietor, Mr. Stanley, and in his arms, well what do you know. A matting of his fishing line, an orange kitten, with a black cork help between his outstretched paws. The same kitten he had fed fish and egg to, when in the dining hall, and who he had stepped on twice, hurting its tail and paw with his heavy leather boots.

"Very sorry sir," came the deep and familiar voice of the innkeep. "The kitten keeps getting into your room, to chase this cork on the fishing line, and this time I was able to catch him," he explained in a low voice, so as not to awaken the other residents on the floor, who he supposed were lucky, having chamber doors that shut securely. "I deeply apologize for the intrusion, and I will lock the kitten downstairs for the rest of your visit." The Preacher, very much relieved he wasn't going to face death, or hits agent, or any other entities of the paranormal, insisted of the innkeeper, that he approach the bedstead at once, and let him hold the wee orange kitten he had gotten to know, intimately so, in order to give it a hug. "Dear little kitten, won't you stay on the bed with me this evening," he said, dispatching the hotelier, begging the creature could remain in the room. "As you like sir, it's all yours."

As it would turn out, for the rest of the stay at this Muskoka lodge, which by the way, wasn't very haunted, the tiny kitten and the Preacher were inseparable, dining together, sitting out on the verandah side by side, and even sleeping together in his chamber at night. The Preacher continued to share his meals with the kitten, and of course, the catch of the day. It was said that when the steamship came for the band of lodgers, at the end of their stay, the little kitten sat mournfully, on the brink of the hill, first, watching his friend walk down the hillside, board the vessel, and only retreated back to the lodge a little lower in spirit, when the trail of steam vapor finally disappeared, as the rumbling steamer slid around the corner of the first island of the open lake. The Preacher felt a little pang, about leaving the kitten to fend for itself, as the mischief-maker it was, getting its tail in the way of boots like his. It had all been part of the lodge experience, and he felt restored of health and faith; and of good humour, in part, due to his liaison with an orange kitten of considerable charisma. He would be haunted by the most pleasant of memories for many years to come.

11

The Preacher Has Gone Fishing Chapter 11

"THE PREACHER HAS GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER ELEVEN OF TWELVE

     When the Preacher stood, pondering the view, perched at the edge of the hillside, looking out over the expanse of Lake Rosseau, he felt a great calm come over him, as if by divine intervention, he had been touched by the heavenly aura of this enchanted place on earth. It gave him reason to relax his anxious mind, and weary soul, and it did cross his mind, that he might retire to this lakeland some day soon, and fish to his heart's content. Nature was proving quite a temptation to him, but a good temptation. It was for his betterment, and he gave himself willingly, to speed-up the transition, of the weary and uninspired, to the thriving and highly motivated. It was his awakening, and he was being very poetic, as if the second coming of the great bard, Robbie Burns. He wanted to write, and he had a lot of empty pages in his folio in which to apply the ink.

     By his own admission, the toils of his profession, and sharing all the stresses of those in his charge, had over time and thousands of miles travelled, along those dusty, terrible roads, dulled his keener senses. He had simply been too exhausted in many circumstances, to stop for any length of time, to truly appreciate all that surrounding him, every day of his travel and outreach.

    The Preacher found himself by this intimate questioning, a much less enthusiastic envoy of God, and it unsettled his perspective on the future. Was he losing his zeal to spread the word? Was he becoming a liability, with his old bones, and old ways, and possibly letting God down somehow. He noticed that even in the short time he had been residing, in this Lake Rosseau encampment, his sensory perception had improved. He had seen a hundred thousand chipmunks in his travels, yet he had never really studied their appearance up close. He had enjoyed their company up on the verandah, even to the point of one little fellow taking a peanut off the toe of his boot. The chipmunk was comfortable enough, to sit up on its haunches, at his feet, and with two front paws, slipping the nut into its pocket cheeks. The Preacher was amazed by this, and provided numerous other peanuts, in order to watch how the tiny brown and black-striped creature, was able to store away so much food in its cheeks. He had awakened to many new realities, while on this gentle respite in Muskoka, especially about the intricacies of nature he had known, but never really studied up close. He felt disadvantaged in this way, because he was much too old to re-school about everything, he had somehow missed through all the years.

     That late afternoon, the Preacher, still rejoicing at the morning's successful fishing adventure, and the fact he had been able to bring back another full creel of fresh catch, for the benefit of the Lodge kitchen, he settled into the deep, soothing depression of a wooden chair, positioned near the entrance on the verandah, and contented himself watching out over the lakeland scene, and enjoying the warmer temperature than the days previous. He watched as other anglers returned from their trips, looking less enthused about their successes, than he had returned with bloated fishing creel, such that the wicker lid would fastened down. He studied the guests and their habits around the property, and the running of youngsters playing hide 'n seek in the adjacent woodland, that looked a little bit like forests he had known growing up in Scotland. He thought that at any moment he would hear the faint echoing skirl of the bagpipes, from somewhere beyond the smokey hillsides.

     The Preacher talked to several guests, two ladies in particular, who had sat themselves down beside him, on the great length of verandah, fronting the Victorian style building, nestled tightly into the pinery of this minor hillside, above the lake. They had a fascination for his stories of Scotland, as he remembered it, and his days there as a young lad, running through the heather-laden hillsides, and of course, there was the great Robbie Burns, another of the country's legendary bards. The women wanted to know what "haggis" was all about, which of course was the traditional, savoury fair, stuffed into a sheep's stomach, with a curious blend of oatmeal, onions, organ meats of the subject sheep, suet, spice, salt, and stock from the boiled-down carcass. He was happy to oblige, with stories he had been told by his grandmother on the subject, of stuffing such traditional fare. The Preacher enjoyed the friendly chatter, and spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying their company, and others, who by happenstance, joined in the conversation.

     At supper hour, the Preacher again sat at his usual table, and enjoyed a delicious fish dinner, as did many other lodgers gathered in the great hall. He made sure, to fulfill his promise, and had his server, on this occasion, seek out the orange kitten he had injured, earlier in the morning, when he had stepped down from the staircase, onto the main floor, catching its tiny tail beneath the heal of his boot. Being of considerable body weight, he understood how terrible this pain must have been, on the frail kitten, and had promised he would bring it a special fish treat that evening, as compensation for the misadventure. She was able to take the broken up portions of fish, from the Preacher's plate, to where the kitten had curled up on a portion of old carpet, rolled in the corner of the foyer of the lodge. He was told later, by the server, that the gift of cooked fish, had been devoured quickly by the wee beastie, but as for forgiveness, he would have to assume, amends had been somewhat achieved by the act of generosity. There would be more at breakfast, when he would allow a few portions of his scrambled eggs, to hit the floor by his chair. This, he had, done, earlier, and the kitten seemed to appreciate the charitable act.

     When the Preacher, that long, long August day, decided it was time to retire to bedlam, he once again, as a last duty of the wise angler, took his fishing rod a part, and gave it a thorough cleaning from the day's activities. He would then, put it back together just as slowly, and carefully, so as not to stress any of points of union, and eyelets for the line, that he also cleaned of dirt brought up when the fish was reeled up to the boat. For a while, he sat in the big arm chair of his chamber, practicing his fly fishing moves, because he expected the guide would take him to a river in the area, to seek out trout from the shallows. He had gone fly fishing many times with his father and grandfather in Scotland, and always felt they had very much enhanced his opinion of nature, and the opportunities being outdoors afforded the hungry soul. A lot of time, between strikes, was spent pondering life and times. There had always been a spiritual aspect about fishing, especially fly-fishing, but he couldn't have explained it simply, or even at all; as it was just wonderment and didn't require dissection. He placed the fishing rod in the corner, where he had situated it previously, and made sure the cork was securely placed on the sharp barb of the hook. He didn't want to step on it, when he got up in the night for a glass of water. 

     He had nodded off in the great chair several times, and finally thought it was time to extinguish the lights, and fall into the soft mattress afforded him on the wooden bedstead, with its warm wraps of wool blankets and colorful exterior quilt. When he sat on the edge of the bed, and enjoyed the sensation of softness against his stiff back, he offered a silent prayer of thanks, for God having provided such a precious day, and trip for him; with the generous bounty of the lake, and the kindnesses bestowed by so many folks at the Muskoka lodge. He even thought, momentarily, about the little cat, he had as a regular visitor at his table in the dining hall, as being pleasant on this vacation to this rural clime, in what was still a pioneer community.

     In only moments, of the Preacher's head hitting the feather-filled pillows, his deep snoring had commenced. If a voyeur had looked through the still partially opened room door, they would have witnessed a very peaceful respite indeed, of the satisfied angler, after another day of fulfilled ambitions. Possibly he would be dreaming of that full fishing creel, for a second day, and find himself, dreamily so, standing in the gentle rapids of a shallow river, casting for the evasive trout he most desired. There was no doubt, by the peaceful scene, that this respite, at the Muskoka lodge, had done his physical and emotional self considerable good, after only a few days immersed in the pleasures of ruraldom.

The Preacher Has Gone Fishing Chapter 10

"THE PREACHER HAS GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER TEN OF TWELVE

     The Preacher had to admit to himself, that he was disappointed about the possibility, he might have been unable to go on this planned fishing trip, in the morning, if the weather continued to be a fact; the rain being heavy and the wind excessive. With good faith, all weather, sunny or inclement, warm or frigid, was a gift from the creator, to celebrate as another day of life. He could get as much emotional, spiritual benefit, just sitting out on the verandah, listening to the sound of the rain hitting the forest and the expanse of open water. It was important to just be here, and relent to saving graces of this bountiful natural paradise. Fishing or not, he will enjoy the respite, and retreat to hearthside should the cold send him indoors.

     One moment the sun was shining brightly, upon this lakeland paradise, in the early morning, and the next moment, as a trait of the old summer, it would cloud-up again, and a burst of rainfall would hit down hard at the lodge building; making it difficult to see out the window, where the Preacher was enjoying his breakfast. The rain disappointed him momentarily, because it was going to change his plans for the fishing excursion. What he would find out shortly, was that his guide wasn't thwarted by a little rain, or bluster, and the only change was to wear articles of clothing that would repel the water. In fact, he looked out the window, and between the falling rain drops down the glass, was the blurred image of the man he was thinking of, at that precise moment, walking up the path to the lodge building. Possibly the guide was coming to get him, which was the case, as it turned out. He could see the canoe lashed to the end pier, at the bottom of the hillside trail. When the guide rounded the corner, to glance in at the dining hall, the Preacher was just finishing the last dregs of coffee, and pulling back his chair to exit. The smile on his face matched the one on the guide's mug, both men obviously happy to head out onto the water, in quest of another creel full of fresh fish. The weather inconsistencies were not going to ruin the day's angling, and of this, all he could think quietly to himself, was, "It's thus, God's will! I will feed these people once more." This of course referenced the occasion the day before, when he had enough fish to share with the cook, to provide a treat for the other lodgers. He had to run up the stairs to his room, to fetch his fishing rod and creel, and of course a jacket he had brought along in his suitcase, that would be better suited to the prevailing wet weather.

      It didn't take him long to bound back down the stairs, proving somewhat, that he was still fit and agile enough, to rise to any urgent occasion, demanding an unspecified amount of physical endurance. On the final step down, he landed on something that wasn't wooden, metal, or carpeting, because this sensation of an obstacle to free passage, was accompanied by a terrible, silence shattering, high pitched screech, from somewhere to his left. When he jerked his head toward the lodge's main counter, he watched as a flash of orange went flying off, around its far corner, as if an animal lit on fire. "What was that," the Preacher asked the clerk standing behind the counter. "Was that what I stepped on," pointing at a kitten, that had just that moment jumped up on a near by window ledge, licking its tail with considerable vigor. As he was leaning against the wood frame of the stairway entrance, to look at his shoe, to see if there was any evidence left on his heel, he did see some strands of orange fur stuck on the edge of his leather sole. "Sir, it happens several times a day, that someone here steps on the tail of one of our kittens, who continually get in the way," said the clerk, while still penning through the lodge register, making notes, occasionally looking up to see what calamity was happening or about to in and around the foyer. "They take care of the mice pretty well," the clerk added. "There are a lot of critters that get into the lodge, every day, and the cats are good at ushering them back out." "I only hope I haven't injured the little fellow," he answered the clerk. "It's a lot of weight from such a substantial human to land on a poor cat's tail," he added, adjusting the empty wicker creel, and passing the fishing rod from left hand to right, to restore the mission once again, to head down to the lake to meet his fishing guide. "The kitten will be fine sir, don't you worry. If it was broken, a section of the tail will eventually just fall off, and he'll be right as rain." The Preacher wasn't too sure the clerk was right about this, but thought the fellow must have information about such a thing, or wouldn't have made such a statement. He had seen cats with short tails before, but never thought about sections falling off on their own. He looked at the kitten, on the window ledge, and offered a belated apology for not seeing his tail, on his way down the staircase. The kitten actually seemed to respond, and he thought it had actually nodded to him, possibly to acknowledge the apology. No, this couldn't be the case. He resolved that following supper, he would present this little orange cat some leftover fish, as the way to make up for the mishap's pain and suffering.

      Long out in the canoe, with his guide, the twosome had been beaten by the sudden bursts of wind and rain, some of it driven horizontal, whenever they paddled into the open, or otherwise exposed area of the lake. The rough weather had limited the catch on this day, and after several hours, traversing from bay to creek-mouth, the Preacher had only filled half of the creel. He had enjoyed the outing none the less, and had the opportunity to talk to his guide, an Irishman, not long in Canada, who seemed to enjoy his questioning about the old country, and if he missed his old home region; the landscape and villages of historic Ireland. He was able to discuss what he missed about Scotland, in the pauses in between answers, and eventually, and for reasons neither knew, the topic of conversation got around to cultural differences, and the matter of superstitions, ghosts and hobgoblins. The guide seemed most animated by the subject of banchees, he had been told about, by his grandfather, when as a child, he used to visit their countryside cottage that always looked so haunted, in the moonlight of August nights. The Preacher interjected, that he too, had been the listener to many similar tales in Scotland, where his family dwelled, near what was called a haunted moor, where spirits of the deceased were said to wander through the mists, that rolled through on cold nights in the late summer. It wasn't that he was going to admit in a belief in ghosts, but rather, to share the folklore of their former homelands, while dipping lines into the deep water of a Muskoka lake.

     Just as he was getting a substantial tug on the silken line, threading tightly into the black water, he decided to ask the guide whether he thought the lodge might have something unusual attached, in the way of a spirited entity. The guide looked rather puzzled, by the question, but was more intent, at that moment, bringing the net from under the seat, in case it was needed to land the Preacher's fish, then visible with a flash of white just beneath the surface. When the fish was successfully netted, and duly admired by the angler, the guide, in casual reply, noted that "there is no ghost that I know of, wandering in the lodge, but there are some strange things that go on out here, and along the shore, on misty days like this, that appear to me, like what those old banchees were supposed to look like, that would scare Christ off the cross." But he didn't feel there was anything to fear in the lodge building of ghosts or hobgoblins. The Preacher decided not to go any further on the enquiry, about the noises, and scuffling he had been hearing, and witnessing at nights in his room. He thought then and there, the guide was trustworthy, and wouldn't deceive him if there had been other reports, of strange occurrences, on the second floor. There had to be an explanation, better than to just deem the interference some action or reaction of the supernatural. His mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe he was having a serious bout of indigestion, and it was manifesting as delusion.

     After this, the Preacher and the guide were kept busy pulling large fish out of the lake, and within the next half hour, they had filled the creel, and part of a metal pail, kept for such eventualities, between the bow and stern of the canoe. He would once again have enough fish to share with the lodge cook, and, as he recalled of a promise made earlier in the day, share a portion with the little orange cat he had injured, unintentionally, stepping down from the last stair to the main floor, and having a bit of orange tail get in the way of his large boot. It would be a gesture of apology that would satisfy perpetrator and victim in this case.

     The twosome paddled back along the lakeshore, trolling just in case, there were one or two more fish, wishing to dedicate themselves to improving the dinner fare that evening. The Preacher was thinking out loud, when he proclaimed, "I think I will ask the church to send me back here permanently."

The Preacher Has Gone Fishing Chapter 9

 "THE PREACHER HAS GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER NINE OF TWELVE

     The Preacher had little use for superstition, but as with most he knew, it had been part of his upbringing in the rural clime of Scotland. It was one of those childhood relics that can't help survive, because at the time it was given its credibility, what way was there to deflect fiction in favor of fact. When he became a missionary, as a first step in his religious outreach, he wondered if those old stories might occasionally pop up in advisories by happenstance; not that he believed in them, but these stories as folkish as they were, still had hold of his mind, in part, because of his respect for the story tellers; his grandparents and parents.

     By the dim light of a still glowing oil lamp, in a corner of the room, the Preacher awoke to hear a heavy footfall, creaking over the woodwork of the second floor hallway. After the break-in and near theft of his heirloom fishing rod, a few hours earlier, he was ready for anyone who dared cross the threshold this time. He grabbed a book from a bedside stand, and at the very least, he could toss it toward the door, as a warning, if it was to suddenly be pulled open. He didn't want to hurt anyone, just scare them away from his chamber. He did recognize that it had not really been a full break-in, because the room door didn't close snuggly in the first place, negating the necessity of a burglar using a crow bar to gain entry. He pondered other explanations, even at this moment, listening as the footsteps passed his room, and then seemed to reverse to the end of the hall, and come back much slower, as if a perpetrator was gauging opportunity. He noticed flashes of light on the semi-closed drapes of the window, and wondering what was going on, he rose higher in the bed, to look out over the lake. It was then, at the same time, he heard the footsteps stop at the entrance to his room, the door knob twist, and the sound of distant thunder echoing over the hollow of the lake. His breathing slowed, and even his heart felt as if it was beating much more gently, in regard to the situation, as he listened intently to what was going on around him. The door was not being opened, but instead, being drawn tightly to the jam. He knew this as fact, because the sliver light from the hall lamps, was almost blacked out, as the door closed more than it had, whenever he made the attempt. Why would someone close his door tightly at what must have been three or four in the morning? Was there some other mystery developing here? Could it be connected to the earlier incident, where someone tried to make-off with his fishing rod? The Preacher wasn't one to succumb to fear, but even his faith was letting him down at this moment, as he pulled the quilt and blankets up to his chin, while he looked at the door. He heard the steps again, and they were headed back from the direction that had originated. Maybe it had been the proprietor checking on the welfare of his guests. Possibly it was the spirit of a former lodger looking for his fishing rod.

     As he sat upright in bed, listening to the rumbles of thunder coming from the west, the lightning became more intense, and several flashes lit up his room, as if all the lamps had been illuminated. But as suddenly as it had arrived, the storm front seemed to shift direction, and despite the sound of a minor amount of rain, hitting hard at the roof, there was no gust of wind, or sharp cracks of thunder, to suggest the storm had moved overhead. The lightning flashed became more distant and weaker, and gradually, the thunder had ceased. A rainfall occurred over the lakeland, some time later in the morning, and it did wake him from a light slumber, but was more soothing than disturbing, to what had been a broken night's sleep. The only thought that came to mind, after hearing the rain, was how it would affect his planned fishing engagement, with the guide from the day before. He might have to make it a later afternoon outing, if the rain was too heavy. He wasn't adverse in any way, of getting wet, to pursue his favorite recreation.

     At the same time, as he lay awake, thinking about the rain, and the angling upcoming, he thought he heard a kind of rolling and thumping somewhere in the upper region of the lodge; but it wasn't near his door, good thing. It sound like a soft ball was being thrown against the wainscotting of the hallway, and at times, it brought to mind, the way a kitten might run chasing a ball of wool. He had known this from his mother's house near Glasgow, where there were always two or three kittens, for most of his childhood, rescued from nearby farms, where barn cats were sometimes more numerous than the mice they fed on. Or, he supposed, it could have been a hobgoblin at its craft, of unsettling the minds and fears of lodgers, wondering out loud to their mates, what could be causing the commotion in the hall. It would get closer, and just as quickly, disappear down the end of the hall, and back again in only a few seconds. The Preacher actually surrendered to his exhaustion, and fell asleep for a second time that night, sitting upright, awaiting the intruder of earlier, to re-appear in the doorway. He awoke when a lodge caretaker rapped on the door of his room, to let him know breakfast was being served in the dining room, and that his fishing guide was preparing the canoe for that morning's outing further along the shore of Muskoka's Lake Rosseau. The advisory, had him nearly jumping from the bedstead, into his trousers hung off the back of an occasional chair on the window side. In only a few minutes of preparation, he had washed his hands and face with water poured from the big white jug, into the basin, on the small wooden stand; and fastened the buttons of his shirt, hoisted up the striped suspenders, wrestled into a tight wool vest, and already sunk one arm into his frock he would wear to breakfast. He took up his fishing rod, unfastened the sections, and placed them side by side in the loops of the case he used for transport. The creel had been left with the cook, after he returned from fishing the morning previous. He put his hat under his arm, on his left, and the fishing rod case on his right, and pushed open the door with a lightness of foot, one feels embarking on a joyful adventure.

     As he came down the final flight of stairs, with a loud squeaking of his leather shoes, that no one in that foyer could have missed, let alone the creaking of the woodwork beneath his large physical frame. The Preacher saw that the proprietor wasn't in his usual place behind the counter, and because he was in a hurry to eat his breakfast, and head out to the waiting canoe, he decided in haste, to talk about the attempted break-in of his room, when a more convenient time; such as after he returned with another creel loaded with fresh catch. He no sooner sat down, than the waiter had placed a plate of food in front of him, and a cup of steaming coffee beside. He would be joined later, by another angler, who was eager to talk to him about his successes the day before. It seemed his generosity, giving the lodge the catch to share with the guests, had become a sort of general chatter, making him a sort of minor celebrity, because of his kindness bestowed on, well, a group of people he only knew by sight not by formal introduction. He liked this attention, because for once, it wasn't because he was a ma, of God, but instead, a fisher of men. An angler of some accomplishment.

     He was of uplifted spirit that morning, and this was, in his mind, most definitely God's plan.

The "Preacher's Has Gone Fishing Chapter 8

 

"THE PREACHER HAS GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER EIGHT OF TWELVE

     Shortly after sunrise, each morning, a resident of the lodge, an artist, from a neighborhood of Toronto, loaded up a canoe with painting gear and bags that may have held provision for a shore lunch. He would arrive back late in the afternoon, and haul up a number of birch panels with sketches on them, and he was kind enough to show them to those inmates of the Muskoka Lodge, reclining in the wood chairs of the great verandah. The sketches were interesting depictions of the pine shoreline of Lake Rosseau, the islands protruding the August mist, and the lowlands and bogs in an around the lakeside, that seemed so primal and untouched by man. It was often the case, that the guests who saw the panels, would remark about how close the colorations were, of all the vegetation, plants, wildflowers and trees, and should he have sketched a deer, how accurate the depiction; much as if it might leap from the painting. The Preacher like to talk about art, and always enjoyed the opportunity to chat with the painter, who would often sit down on the pew-like bench beside him; and discussions of world art would take place, as a sort of post university lecture series. Each day was a different topic. The artist gave the Preacher a number of his dried panels, as painter to art admirer. 

     The Preacher had enjoyed a long, relaxing respite, lounging in a wooden chair, on the lodge verandah, feeling very good indeed, about having enjoyed such a prosperous occasion of fishing, earlier in the morning. He felt even more successful, as an angler, of old world experience, having learned to fish in Scotland, with his father and grandfather as a young man; how proud  he was to have, on this day, been able to offer fresh fish to the lodge's cook, to benefit guests at supper time. Should they wish a fish fry-up, of course. He had been lounging on the verandah for several hours, in the warm afternoon temperature, a soft August breeze, thinking about how delicious the fish would taste, when the supper hour rolled around. Lunch had been fine, but dinner would be superb. They were fine, chubby, summer-fed fish, that came from the deep, cold water of this beautiful Muskoka lake.

     As was expected, the dinner hour arrived, and he was amongst the first lodgers to make it through the entrance to the dining-room, taking what he thought of, as his private table, by the front window. When dinner was served to him, it looked glorious, and he immediately thanked God for this life sustaining provision, he was about to devour, with the lovely potatoes, and greens grown in a small garden plot behind the building. He savoured every morsel, and when he looked about him, there were many others, enjoying meals of fish and potatoes, and he felt quite good, that he was at least responsible for the main part of the meal. He paused for a moment, to look out over the lake, watching several row boats coming into the docking area of the lodge, after lengthy afternoon excursions up the lake. It was a paradise on earth, but he fell short of thinking it to be "heaven," when that could only be achieved by religious belief and unfortunate demise. He picked up a bound copy of "Muskoka, the Sportsman's Paradise," from a nearby book shelf, and began reading the introduction. "Paradise," he thought, was the perfect description, of the fine place where he was situated, at that moment, during the first full day at this Muskoka lodge.

     He was so proud of his day's haul, by fishing rod, line and hook, that he unwrapped the case in his room, and decided to give a minor cleaning to his weapon of choice; fastening the sections together, and occasionally, motioning, and wavering the rod, as if he was fly fishing on a rock-strewn babbling creek. At the same time, connecting with various pieces of furniture in his room, and getting the exposed hook, on one minor cast, stuck in the side of an upholstered chair in the corner. Upon its release, with some of the hay stuffing, being pulled onto the carpet, from the tiny tear. He would have to report the damage to the proprietor he thought, unless he could make a repair that would be seamless. The Preacher propped up several down filled pillows up against the headboard of the bed and reclined there, with the fishing rod still in his clenched hands. He slid his boots off, and allowed himself the privilege of nodding off, is such was to happen. He blew out one of the illuminated oil lamps, on the night stand, to give a little darkness to the room, as when he arrived on the mattress, it was in the early moments before sunset. The sunset was flaring on the horizon, and setting fire to the surface of the lake in a most alluring manner. The hard to close door to his room, also let in the lamp light from the corridor, and he could hear the voices of guests passing back and forth to their accommodations; some of the conversations he felt rather guilty about, because it might perceived he was then privy to intimate information.

     The Preacher, had in fact, pretty much retired to bedlam, as the deep snoring revealed to those passing by his chambers. By the clock at the end of the hallway, the chimes clearly indicated to all who were still awake, or who had been suddenly awakened, that it was midnight. The sound of the clock's chime didn't awaken the Preacher, at that moment. Instead, it was the tug at the fishing rod, that made him instinctively clasp the handle still resting in his hands. It was as if, from bed, he had a fish had taken hold of the hook, which he had covered with a cork, after having gotten it caught in the soft bottom of an old corner-chair. What was happening here, now, that something was pulling away at his line, like he had got a strike from the murky bottom of the lake? By this point, he had opened both eyes, and begun pulling back on the rod. He was shocked then, when there was resistance, and actual repetitive tugging. But of course this was a dream. He must be dreaming of being awake, because how was this happening otherwise, that he was in this fight with something quite unknown. Admittedly, he wasn't fully stirred to alertness at that moment, trying to figure out what was transpiring in the low light of his chamber.

     While hanging onto the fishing rod, for fear it would be pulled onto the floor, to get caught in the legs of chairs and table, he adjusted his position on the bed, to get more control of the situation. The rocking chair began to move, near the door, where he could see a splinter of light coming through the jam but there was not enough brightness to identify what was on the other end of the fishing line. Whatever was pulling, had no intention of giving up the fight. The Preacher got himself in position to swing his legs over the side of the mattress, to get better authority on rod and reel. When he pulled harder, it pulled just as hard back, and on two occasions, he felt his weight was winning-out in this strange contest through the center of  his room. He was slowly able to stand up, in order to get a better look at his adversary, at present, quite unknown of this world or other worldly. He arose from the bedstead, and took two small steps before stubbing his toe on the iron claw feet, of a small stool beside the night stand. The Preacher stumbled, yelled out in pain for his compromised toe, and before regaining his balance, had the fishing rod pulled free of his hand, subsequently hitting the floor, and being pulled toward the doorway. Trying to correct the situation of disadvantage, he moved toward the door himself, and noticed, in the dim light, the rod had become wedged parallel to the door, with the fishing line wrapped around the rockers of the chair, which had also been pulled to block the entrance. He knew someone was trying to steal his fishing rod. What else could it be? An entity that would try to wrench it from his own hands? A robber in a place like this!

     He got to the door, unravelled the fishing line from the rockers of the chair, which had tumbled onto its side, and rescued his prized fishing rod from the floor, and its position of compromise. He shut the door as far as it would close, obviously having been pulled open by the lodge thief, whoever that might have been. The Preacher decided to leave the matter until the next morning, when he would make a point of discussing the issue with the innkeeper at the front desk. If the perpetrator was looking for items of value, he or she would be visiting other rooms as well. It must be stopped.

     It took him hours to get back to the level of comfort and peace of mind, that he could then fall back into that beautiful slumber he had been enjoying before the incident.

The Preacher's Gone Fishing Chapter 7

 "THE PREACHER HAS GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER SEVEN OF TWELVE

     The deep black-water of the small Lake Rosseau bay, protected from the chill wind, this morning, by rugged shoreline and trees, made the deep green alcove that much more enchanted; although he seldom thought in these terms, as he had once, as a child, been so profoundly inspired, when his mother read stories to him, detailing with great patience, the mysteries of the natural world. It was as if, he pondered, while looking out over the sanctuary of lakeshore, she had, very much predicted the future, preparing him for just such an out-of-doors adventure. It mattered not that it was so much later in his life. This, to him, was rare poetry come to life, as if Sir Walter Scott, the great bard of the old country, bonnie wee Scotland, was sitting there, in place of the guide, reciting insightful passages about legends and lore. Any why, pray tell, he should leave nothing to chance, and enjoy life for the moment, and at this moment, the deep water and its mysteries beckoned.

     The Preacher untied the cloth ties from the tight bundled canvas, wrapping around his fishing rod, and took great care removing the lengths, and the reel, that would have to be fastened together carefully, with precise movements, so as not to rock what appeared a very unsteady vessel. He had very little experience as a canoeist, but the capable guide was in complete control, balancing with his paddle placed firmly down across the gunnels, to counter the movements, and shifts of weight, of the Preacher, putting his fishing rod pieces together. In only a few moments, he had the rod secured in place, and the small blackened cork removed from the tip of the hook, he kept there for reasons of safety, where he would soon attach the bait, snatched from deep in a metal pail, stored below the guide's plank seat at the stern.

     The guide nodded approval, when the Preacher looked back to see if, where the canoe had ceased to be propelled, was the place on the bay, to drop in the silken line with now baited hook. He let it slide into the water, barely making a ripple on the surface, and through his fingers, he felt the weighted hook falling deeper, and deeper, down into the black water; and into a world he could only imagine was crowded with fish of all kinds, weaving through the strange underwater growth that was their natural habitat. The Preacher sat patiently for what seemed an eternity, awaiting some minor tug on the line, indicating a fish was nibbling on the offered feast of a fat garden worm. It was tranquilizing, to rock in the canoe, as the gentle movement of the water, invisible to the eye, created a feeling of flight through the reflections of sky, and forest, in the up-side-down fiction of the moment.

     The guide talked quietly about fishing, and his work at the Lodge, but the Preacher was answering only with unintelligible muttering in return, too intently occupied, watching the fishing line, to engage in general conversation. It came suddenly, and at a time, when he had been looking up at blue jays, flitting noisely about, in a gnarled shoreline cedar. The line pulled sharply down, with considerable weight, and the Preacher reacted like a veteran angler, assuming control of the rod as if his life depended on navigating this extension of himself, to a successful landing, of what he believed would be a magnificent fish; like the ones his father talked about netting in youthful sport. He knew the trickery of the catch, and that the fish would try everything, to snap the line, even if it meant tangling it on obstructions, old logs, sunken, and embedded on the bottom of the bay. This one was putting up a strong fight. It made it all the more interesting, and alluring; the mystery of what kind of aquatic beast, it was, now trying to pull him down into the water. The struggle between man and fish went on for quite some time, until finally, the fish was brought up close enough to the canoe, for the guide to dip in a long-necked net, to scoop up the still struggling fish; its species unknown by the story teller.

    The catch was held up by the Preacher, with one hand on the rod, the other on a length of line above the hook, so the fish swung like a bell in the open air. This scene would repeat numerous times on this sunny August morning, and his creel was soon and happily overflowing with bounty, from a most generous lake. Arriving back at the lodge, to some envious stares, from other guest anglers, would make him feel senior amongst them, and one to offer sage advice on the fine art, and refined philosophy, of fishing for trophies.

     He had offered some of the catch to the guide for his personal use, but it was suggested by him, that the fish be given to the cook at the lodge, for the benefit of those other lodgers, who might enjoy the fresh catch. Even for his own meal, the cook would prepare the best of the lot, for the Preacher's supper that evening. This really delighted him, as he would be proud to take credit for the supper fare, set out on those attractively decorated tables, in the big hall overlooking the lake.

     In heart, there was joy, and if there hadn't been a crowd at the entrance way to the lodge, who would judge such a thing, he thought it would have been appropriate, under the circumstances, to give a little hop and click of his heels; but they would judge this as excessive by a Preacher, who was supposed to be even to all events and interventions. He assessed however, that if he did it in his mind, but his feet weren't intimately involved, God would understand the profound joy of this, the angler's finest moment. It was then with great enthusiasm, that he headed straight toward the kitchen, attached to the dining room, to present the cook with his solidly packed creel, that stopped the lid from fastening securely. He was also pleased to have given the guide six other goodly sized fish for his own family's supper. It had been a most perfect day for him, and the weariness he arrived with, had now departed, and he was looking forward to spending the afternoon, sitting out on the great verandah, watching over activities at the lodge, and reading one of several books he had brought along, in his few bags of luggage.

     All was good in the universe, he thought, at least for now.

The Preacher's Gone Fishing Part 6

 

"THE PREACHER'S GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER SIX OF TWELVE

     It was a feast for the senses. It was as if he had suddenly looked up, and seen a world he had never known previous. He had seen it, but not with any real clarity, other than through the eyes of a working missionary, tending the needs of everyone else but his own. But it had been his choice of vocations. He oftened wondered what it would have been like, had he taken up the pen as a writer, or better, as a poet, which he had entertained for some time, while at university. This was offering him a sort of liberation from his normal life and work, and it felt as if a minor reawakening of his spirit; and he pondered penning some of his inner-most thoughts, before leaving this charming place on the lakeside.

     On that first morning at the Lake Rosseau Lodge, the sky was a universal deep blue, appearing more heavenly than usual, to the Preacher, who had just finished a sumptuous breakfast in the busy dining room. He had enjoyed sitting at a table overlooking the bay below, and watching the rowboats, and canoes, setting out for a morning of exploration, and possibly even precarious adventure. He was anxious to take his fishing creel and rod, down to the large wooden dock, where he expected to find the boat he had been promised, and the guide, to lead him to the fishing hole only a few intimates of his, a preferred group of kindred spirits he assumed, knew where to find the angler's paradise.

    He folded up the linen napkin resting across his lap, but sensed something had fallen out, onto the wood floor, but he couldn't see it from his angle at the table. But before he could get up from his chair, he felt something brush against the leg of his trousers, and a definite weight on the toe of his right shoe. He lifted the table cloth, to see what was happening down below, and he spotted the wee orange kitten, he had seen the night before in the lobby, and it was, at this moment, eating a portion of egg that had fallen from the napkin. The Preacher had actually stepped on the kitten's tail the evening before, and feeling that was unjust to the little creature, found another morsel of food on his plate, and purposely sent it tumbling below, hitting the kitten on the end of the nose. It was a small act of charity, he thought, to make up for stepping on its tail earlier in their relationship. The kitten devoured the offering of egg, and then scampered away, when another diner, dropped a portion of potato onto the floor boards.

     With his fishing gear gathered up at the Lodge entrance, straw hat tipped back, and to the side of his head, the Preacher nodded farewell to the innkeep, and the guests crowded at the top of the porch, and began the short hike down the rock-bordered path, to the water's edge; with great anticipation etched on his face, of the good fishing yet to come. There was a joy in the air that morning, as Muskoka unfolded to him, as further evidence why so many he had met, referred to the landscape as God's Country. There was a music playing, but with no evidence of an orchestra, or solo musician, it was manifesting by lapping waves, and cool breeze hushing through the needles of pine boughs; the paddles gurgling against the water, and the rowboat bows, trickling the incoming waves, raising in the wind on the broader expanse of lake. There are blue jays flitting in the row of waterline cedars, three squirrels and a venerable old crow, exchanging pleasantries from the upper boughs. He thought it was indeed, one of God's remarkable days.

     The guide was ready for him, with the canoe securely lashed to an upright post of the dock. He crouched as low as he could get, and then sat on the edge of the structure, feet stretched out over the canoe; then putting his feet on the bottom of the vessel, sensing its stability, trying to balance onto the seat at the bow, but not before the guide was in place. In a few measured moves, and a slow immersion into the spirit of the watercraft, the Preacher was firmly positioned, as the guide maintained the balance against the dock. In only a few moments, the pair would be off over the lake, the Preacher and the Guide, paddling up the glistening waterway, black in the shadows of a brightly illuminated August morning. The anticipation was huge, in the Preacher's mind, as the guide provided deep and powerful pushes from the paddle, to his modest jabs at the surface; not having had much experience paddling canoes in the past. He thought the image would have made a fine portrait for his study at home, a painting of this canoe, and paddlers, against the brilliant greens of the Muskoka forest. He would have wished it to be hung above the mantle of the old rock fireplace. It would remind him of this splendid respite, at a time in his life when he needed it most.

     This was poetic to him. There was something within, that was trying to pull him in, and he was willing, at this point in his life, to venture forth.