Part 1: The Moon Island Fishing Club
It was March, and the last blocks of ice rolled down the river toward Lake Huron. In those days, the five members of the Moon Island Fishing Club still met in Henry Roe’s basement.
Aquariums filled with freshwater predators lined the walls. A large walleye stared at a monstrous pike hiding in fake weeds, while a burbot fanned the bottom. Every tank had a note marking the location of capture except one that sat empty in the corner. Leo caught Henry looking at it.
“Oh, don’t worry chap. No shame in not having caught a Redmouth. Not many of us have,” Leo said, smiling just enough to make it sting.
Linda walked over and put her hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Now, Leo, we’re not a bunch of weekenders here,” she lightly scolded before looking softly at Henry.
Leo watched Linda’s hand linger on Henry’s shoulder.
“Enough with the socializing. Let’s get started,” Leo bellowed. “Today is the hundredth anniversary of the Moon Island Fishing Club.”
The brothers John and Earl clapped. Leo smiled. Linda moved aside as Henry stepped forward to speak. “I’ve planned everything out for us,” he said.
Leo rolled his eyes. “Always with the plans,” he said.
Henry ignored this. “I’ve already got everything loaded on the boat.”
John and Earl looked at each other before Earl said, “let’s go.”
Henry nodded.
The group headed outside to the river and loaded into a large wooden boat with a huge black outboard motor. Henry pulled the starter cord, and the motor purred to life. John and Earl flicked on the fore-and-aft lights, and they were off.
The air grew colder the farther they pushed into Lake Huron.
As they traveled, everyone watched Leo, except Henry.
“What do you think is there?” John asked, breaking the silence.
Leo leaned back against the boat railing, studying their eyes. Everyone except Henry—who was steering the boat—leaned in to hear him. “A hundred years ago today, in Georgian Bay, Cornelius Wheeler—a young seaman struggling to feed his family—came across a wreck on the rocks near the island. By the looks of the splayed metal, nothing could be done, and he thought maybe there would be something to salvage—something he could sell to feed his family. So he anchored and rowed his dinghy ashore.
“As he looked through the wreckage, something called out. It came from nowhere he could see. The wind picked up, and the waves began to whitecap, spraying water all over the rocky outcropping.
“A thought came into his mind, small and weak at first, then stronger. It told him what he must do. He found a lever on the busted hull and pulled it. A compartment opened. It spoke—but not in words. A brilliant, pulsing ball—it hurt his eyes to stare at it.”
Leo paused. The others waited.
“Before he died, Cornelius told me it needed to wait a hundred years in that wet sand. A day more or less, and we were to forget it. It needs to be unearthed in the hour of the Worm Moon after the 100th winter.”
Earl looked at John, whose question Leo, as always, failed to answer. “But what do you think it is?” Earl asked.
Leo grunted. “I don’t think even Cornelius knew the answer to that.”
“You know more than you say,” John said.
“Why? Because I knew the man? Because I could describe what his pipe smelled like?”
They all looked away from Leo, except Henry, who continued to steer the boat.
“Did he ever say anything else, Leo?” Linda asked.
Leo nodded slowly. “When he first told me the story, he said it already started to change color by the time he buried it.” Leo looked out in the water. “And that one day it’d go home.”
No one said anything after that.
Where they beached the boat, the island was lit only by the moon. Trees cast shadowy fingers over the yellow sand, and rocky outcroppings looked like giant turtle shells.
Henry tossed four shovels onto the beach at the feet of the rest.
“Didn’t you bring a shovel for yourself, Henry?” Earl asked.
“The president doesn’t dig boy-yo,” Leo answered. Leo looked up at Henry. “Isn’t that right?”
Henry jumped out of the boat with a large canvas sack over his shoulder. “Yes. Somebody has to tend the light,” he said, patting the bag. “We’re heading to the northern peak of the island. Let’s get a move on. We want to make sure we have plenty of time.”
They picked up their shovels and began walking.
Henry lingered behind the others, walking slowly, deliberately, listening to their conversations. He stopped when his canvas sack began to squirm—first once, slowly, then harder—and tightened the rope without looking before continuing along the moonlit beach.