The Great Spirit, the Creator,

Flashing light through all the heavens;

The Great Serpent, the Kenabeek,

With his bloody crest erected,

Creeping, looking into heaven.

O’er the water floating, flying,

Something in the hazy distance,

Something in the mists of morning,

Loomed and lifted from the water,

Now seemed floating, now seemed flying,

Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.

            It was the last night of their wilderness vacation, and what a night it turned out to be.

The three extremely terrified voyagers were now huddled closely together on a tiny mattress on the now violently shaking houseboat floor.

Just outside their tiny cabin window, booming thunder bursts echoed through the wilderness, massive lightning bolts filled the northern sky, 60 mile per hour winds ravaged the lakes and forests, and huge chunks of hurling debris spun through the once peaceful night air.  The full fury of the worst spring storm in centuries was rapidly descending directly upon them.

The National Weather Service had detected three funnel clouds, not two, as the radio station had erroneously reported.

In Tom’s wonderful wilderness paradise in Voyageurs National Park, there was now absolutely nowhere to run – nowhere to hide.

            “Tom!  Please, Tom!  I can’t take this bouncing up and down a minute longer.  And the god-awful noise!  I’m going out of my mind.  I’m also getting sick to my stomach.  We’ve got to get out of here, Tom!  Please.  Listen to me!  Please.”

            “Honey, I hate to say this, but I almost agree with you.  I’ve never seen a damn storm last this long.  It’s going to look like a war-zone around here by morning.  But honestly, we’ve got absolutely nowhere to go.  I know it’s not much comfort, but this really is the safest place we can be.  Honest to God, it is.  I wouldn’t lie to you.  I’m just sorry I got you into this mess.”

            “It’s not your fault, but …”

            At that moment, the spinning, gyrating wind lifted the large metal garbage container out on the front deck, and hurled it forcefully through the porch’s screened mesh siding.

It crashed loudly and violently against the small metal table, spewing a week’s worth of uneaten food and garbage all over the carpeted floor.

The table immediately collapsed under the metal drum’s weight, and Tom’s navigational maps and charts went scattering and flying all around the now completely exposed front porch area.

            Tom looked up in horror, jumped off the mattress, and raced towards the door to the front porch to save his precious maps.  He knew they might need them eventually.

Just as he reached the door, its glass panel shattered in his face as a massive tree branch came whirling through it directly into the cabin.

The heavy branch hit him above his right eye.  He immediately cried out in pain, staggered a second, and then slumped motionless to the cabin floor.

            “Oh my God!  Tom!  Tom!  Speak to me, Tom!  Are you OK?”

            When Marge didn’t get a response from her fallen husband, she slowly began crawling towards him on the houseboat floor.  Complete and utter terror engulfed her as she inched along the glass-strewn debris.

Her legs were being nicked and cut by tiny shreds of broken glass, but she didn’t even realize it.  She was too numb.

The howling, vicious, unrelenting wind was also now blowing right through the tiny shattered door panel directly above her head.

Margaret finally reached her fallen husband’s side.  She frantically rolled him onto his back.  She could see he was still breathing, but he was unconscious.

Small bloody cuts from the shattered glass covered his entire face, and jagged, dangling patches of skin above his right eye were oozing crimson splotches of thick, coagulating blood.  The right side of his forehead was also turning a sickening shade of blue and swelling rapidly.

Oh dear Lord!  What do I do?  Please tell me what to do!

            As Margaret slumped there on the cabin floor, cradling her husband’s battered face in her lap, their courageous little dog crawled off the mattress and began inching his way forward on the violently heaving houseboat floor.  He was whining, whimpering, and shaking.

His tiny paws were also being nicked and cut as he crawled.  Yet, Big Mack still came slowly forward.  When the tiny dog reached Tom and Margaret, it immediately began licking Tom’s motionless, battered face.

            “Good boy, Big Mack.  You’re a real good boy.  Tom’s going to be all right.  You’ll see.”

            Their pet’s unexpected bravery had somehow snapped Margaret out of the utter despair she was rapidly sinking into.  She stroked Big Mack’s trembling chin and resolved to do something – anything.

            Think, damn you.  Think.  What would Tom do?  He wouldn’t just squat here on the floor, crying like a helpless child.  Think…          

            As the wind continued to howl, and the vicious thunder and lightning reigned horribly overhead, Margaret and Big Mack kept silent vigil over Tom’s unconscious bloody body, as this vicious spring storm increased in intensity.

There was now absolutely nowhere to run – nowhere to hide.

©2004, an excerpt from Cemetery Island, a novel by Ed Kostro