Chapter 4, "The Preacher's Gone Fishing

 

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

     Upon entering his rustic, comfortable room, he noticed it to be heavily scented of fresh cut pine, yet corrupted slightly by the sweet, musty-aroma of damp upholstery, associated with soft armchairs, familiar of such weather-prone places as this; influenced by the trace scent of smoke, and soot, from the ignited oil lamps spread about in the room, glowing warmly that first night. He had only one thought at moment of entry; and that was making his way to the brightly colored bedstead, with its ample wool coverings to keep him warm against the distinct August chill he could feel, just standing close to the shut window. The heat from the bottom floor woodstoves, would drift up, slightly cooler, to the second floor rooms, through vent holes in each of the rooms. The Lodge would be closing for the year, early in September, and left to weather the fall, winter and spring; until another summer season arrived in the vast Muskoka hinterland, so beautiful in the sunlight, enchanted in the late summer moonlight, but a wickedly isolated place in the middle of January.

     He sat on the edge of the bed to pull his tall boots off, and when he stood up, again, remembering to use the water in the wash basin to cleanse his hands, and wash his face, he stopped for a moment of reflection, to take his fishing rod from the leather carrying case; to put it together in preparation for the morning, when he had planned to take advantage of a fishing tour the Lodge had offered him. The preacher carefully fastened the pieces of the rod together, and adjusted the reel, stringing the line through the length of eyelets; and then placing a small blackened cork on the tip of the sharp hook, to prevent it snagging on his clothing, or anything else. The tip of that hook was where he would attach a big earthworm, excavated from the deep, dark forest earth, the next morning, in preparation for his attempt at angling in this revered lakeland of Muskoka.

     He pulled back the covers, after extinguishing the lamps, and he had purposely left the door slightly ajar, allowing the hall light to shine, ever so slightly into the room's entrance-way. It also allowed some of the building's heat to penetrate the room which had been quite chilly when he first entered. The Preacher whispered what was most likely an evening prayer, and with a soft thud, and wash and rub of woolen blankets, had disappeared under a mound of covers in the realm of sweet bedlam. In no time at all, the passerby in the hallway, would have heard a low, but comfortable rumble of snoring, coming from within the darkened room, and it would have been, to some who had met the Preacher, earlier in the trip, the calming, almost pleasant sound, of an unspecified conviction about the true and attainable qualities of peace on earth. Even if, by definition, it was by any other reckoning, the result of a peaceful sleep beneath the Muskoka pines.

     A few short hours after retiring, the Preacher was awoken by a strange rattling sound, coming from the corner of his room, and he initially suspected an intruder, or Lodge worker, had come into his room for some unspecified reason. He raised himself from the deep nest of pillows, with face still partly covered by several layers of blankets, to see if he could discover what had awoken him from his happy slumber. There it was again. The sound of tapping, in and around a rocking chair, tucked into the corner of the room; the back of it, where he had flung his heavier coat, upon arrival in the chamber. There was just enough light coming into the room, from the slightly opened door, to allow him to see the back of the rocking chair, and somewhat, into the top region of the corner, where he half expected to find someone standing. He watched for a while, and even called out, to whoever had entered his sanctuary that moonlit night. The noises stopped once he had raised his voice in concern, as if the interloper had been scared off, from potentially committing some sort of robbery. There were still muffled sounds arising, near the entrance-way to his room, but from his position, he could only guess at its source. If it was a mouse, it would have to be a large one, and on a mission well beyond being playful.

     He then assessed, that it might have been the travels of a creature, like a chipmunk, in search of sustenance, thinking his room might be a good hunting ground in the wee hours of the night. The Preacher soon fell soundly back to sleep, as all returned to that gentle peace he had so dearly embraced when he first hit that soft mattress, on the wooden bed that unfortunately was not as long as he was tall. At some time later, in the same area as he had heard the first tapping and scuffling, on the wood floor, the Preacher was again woken-up, in roughly the same manner, except this time, he saw the very distinct rocking back and forth of the chair, where the black lump on the back, was his hastily draped overcoat. He stared intently at the scene, in the thin ribbon of lamp light coming through the door, and there was no illusion here at all. The rocker was moving gently back and forth, as if someone was occupying it, yet of the invisible variety of personage. The tapping continued, and there was a similar, yet different sound of scuffling near by, and as sustained as it was for those five minutes or so, in the Preacher's room, it suddenly stopped when footsteps could be heard coming up the hallway. He assumed it was the footfall of another guest, moving about the building, or the innkeep checking on the oil lamp flames.

     As he was not afraid of ghosts, partly because of his chosen profession, such that he could not separate from it, even in this civilian retreat, where death and its tending, was part of his regular assignment...., he whispered a soft apology to what may have been the spirit of a former lodger, who had once enjoyed the comforts of that very chair; and then fell back into the heaven of his multiple pillows, and pulled the blankets high to the point of his pointed chin. Soon, the only sound in that room, was the deep snoring, more like growling, from deep within his throat, expressed loudly from his nose and mouth, in a sort of human explosion of gas and vapors. He would sleep soundly until he was awoken by the smell of frying pork and potatoes, and the sounds of water birds, rejoicing, watching the leap of fish, rippling here and there, the solitude of the morning bay. A feast to be had, for yet another day, for questing, puffed-up, obviously well-fed gulls, flying low over the waters of this dazzling body of Lake Rosseau, in the hinterland of the Muskoka district.

     He was eager to meet the morning with his full body, and eager mind, to embrace the liberation for all it was worth. He wanted to be like those feeding gulls, getting fat from the bounty of the lake. He pondered how long it would take, to catch enough fish to fill his large wicker creel. It was time to dress, dine, and head down to the dock, in order to embark on his fishing trip to points unknown. It was the whole point of the trip afterall. As he found fishing of great relaxation, the church had agreed with his request for a vacation, in order to refurbish his work weary self. It was all coming to fruition here and now. What heaven on earth was this?