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.