Virtual Book Tour: Tremolo: Cry of the Loon Chapter Two

Tremolo Excerpt

Chapter Two

     The fog condensed and settled in for the night, thick and impenetrable. Our parents' voices warbled through the mist, becoming fainter as we drifted away.

     The lake water grew warmer than the air. We reconnected our grip beneath the cushions, looping them through the handles and grasping each other's prune-wrinkled fingers.

     Elsbeth began to weep, her breath hitching with each sob.

     "Don't cry," I said. "It'll just make you tired. You've gotta save your strength."

     I could barely see the outline of her head in the darkness. She sniffled and nodded. "Okay. I'll... I'll try."

     Siegfried used a firm voice. "Elsbeth Marggrander. You must be strong. As long as we are together, we will be okay, nicht wahr? (right?)"

     "Ja," she said, pressing our hands beneath the water.

     The hours passed and we struggled to avoid sleep, singing "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," "Can't Buy Me Love," and "Please, Please Me," until our throats grew sore. The camp waitresses in the little red cabin had blasted the songs the last few weeks. We knew them by heart.

The tunes billowed in the night, punctuating our bizarre watery world with lost love and youthful yearning. My voice rasped as we sang, becoming weaker. I laid my head on the cushion. Exhaustion took hold. My eyes closed and I slurred the words to "A Hard Day's Night."

     A faint sound of splashing washed in syncopated rhythm with our voices. Reluctantly, I raised my head from the cushion. The soft sound of water lapped the shore nearby. I squeezed the twins' hands.

     "Which way is it?" Siegfried whispered.

     Elsbeth pointed toward the noise. "It's over there. That way. Come on. Auf geht's. (Let's go.)"

     We paddled toward the welcome sound. When our feet touched soft sandy bottom, we hurried toward the shore, climbing on a granite boulder hidden under a canopy of white birches.

     "Where are the cabins?" Elsbeth asked.

     I strained to see in the pitch-black. No lights shone through the fog. No aromas of grilling burgers wafted on the air. And no sounds of scampering children met our ears.

     I sputtered with frustration against a chorus of crickets and peepers. "We're probably on the west end. We'll have to walk a ways to find someone. Come on."

     We picked our way along the narrow shore trail, occasionally stepping over fallen trees. When we'd walked in the fog for about twenty minutes, we paused to catch our breath. Shivering, we stood barefoot on the pine needles that softened the path.

     A flashlight glimmered on the trail ahead. Someone skittered toward us, racing away from the light. A wisp of a girl with long blond hair came toward us.

     The light bobbed as its owner approached.

     "Sharon!" a man's voice roared. "Sharon, where are you?"

     The girl nearly collided with me. Staring with huge eyes, she covered a trickle of blood in the corner of her mouth. She trembled and breathed hard, silhouetted by the eerie glow of the light, clutching her torn blouse where two buttons were missing. Her palpable terror raised goose bumps on my arms.

     Before we could speak, she panicked and hopped off the trail into the woods.

     A flicker of fear passed through me. Siegfried sensed the danger and pulled us into the woods just before the man lurched past. The stench of whisky and sweat filled the air. He thundered on the trail, bellowing like a man on fire.

     "Sharon! God damn it, girl. Where are you?"

     Sharon had disappeared. After a few moments of tense silence, we chanced it and returned to the track, tearing away from the drunk. The office of The Willows campground came into view. A pale orange light glowed above the door of the camp store, enveloped in a festival of fluttering moths. We opened the screen door and fell into dry warmth. The woman behind the counter nearly dropped the half-gallon of milk she was ringing up for the customer at the cash register.

     "Well, my heavens. What have we here?"

     We babbled about the fog and the capsized boat and were soon surrounded by caring adults who wrapped us in blankets. Our parents were called. We told the storekeeper about the girl and the man who'd been chasing her. Within an hour, a deputy arrived. He drove us through the dense fog to Loon Harbor, my grandparents' fishing camp, where our parents descended on us with relief and hot cocoa.

     When I finally crawled under the woolen blankets in my bedroom over the lake, Sharon's face floated before me, sending shivers down my back. I had shared her fear as we stood side by side in the dark woods. She was terrified. And hurt. The lout had hit her. I knew it.

     I closed my eyes tighter and prayed she escaped his grasp. After a half hour of tossing and turning, I drifted off into fitful dreams.