The
Witch of November
by Freya-Kendra
Rating: PG
Summary: At the shores of Lake Michigan, Blair remembers a long-lost friend; to
the strains of Gordon Lightfoot's "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”.
Witch of November
* * *
Chilled and buffeted by the harsh
winds, Blair Sandburg stood on a hill above the beach of a west coast that was
very different from the one he'd grown to know as home. He watched the roiling
water crash against the pier with all the force and the fury of primal nature,
sending solid, white sprays to the top of the lighthouse's beacon. In another
month those same sprays would begin to solidify, icing over to form magnificent
sculptures no artist would ever be able to duplicate. In six months the pier
would once again become accessible to fascinated tourists anxious to photograph
the incredible views from the northwestern shores of Lake Michigan. But at that
particular moment while Blair gazed outward, not even the bravest fool would
consider setting foot on those slippery, wooden planks.
No, not a
brave fool. Then what sort of fool?
* * *
The legend lives on from the
Chippewa on down, of the big lake they called "Gitche
Gumee." The lake, it is said, never gives up her
dead when the skies of November turn gloomy.
With a load of iron ore twenty-six
thousand tons more than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty. That good ship and
true was a bone to be chewed when the "Gales of November" came early.
* * *
Blair jumped when a firm hand landed
on his shoulder. He turned to find Jim standing beside him.
"It's freezing out here,
Chief," Jim shouted against the wind. "Let's go get a fire
going."
Yeah. Blair had been thinking the
same thing. He nodded, yet the lake seemed determined to hold him there.
Looking back at the surging waves, he swallowed hard against the lump that had
started to lodge itself into his throat, and then followed Jim back into the
cabin.
"I don't know how you talked me
into coming here," Jim said as he hung his coat on the hook by the door.
"You're the one who was complaining about how cold it was in Detroit. Hell, that was practically tropical compared to this!"
Blair headed straight to the coffee
maker. "You didn't exactly argue." Focusing on measuring the right
amount of grounds and water, he was careful to avoid meeting his friend's gaze.
"Besides, you're the one who said you wanted a little down-time before
heading back to Cascade."
"Yeah. Down-time. A
cabin by the lake, a little fishing. That kind of
down-time."
"Jim, it's
Lake Michigan, not some quiet, little inland lake. And it's November. What'd
you expect?"
"I guess I expected it to feel
like November, not February."
As the coffee began to brew, Blair
heard the crackle of embers in the fireplace, signaling that Jim had also
finished with his own self-appointed task. Blair wouldn't be able to avoid him
for much longer.
"This is what November feels
like out here," Blair offered while he scrounged around in the cupboards
for two undamaged coffee mugs.
"Which makes
it all the more confusing."
Yet Jim's very statement was
confusing. Blair temporarily forgot his need for avoidance and turned a
questioning eye on Jim.
"You hate the cold," Jim
added in explanation. His searching, blue gaze seemed to amplify the icy wind
outside. "So why here? Why now?"
Yeah. Why now? Blair sighed and
turned away again. It was easier to give his full attention to the cupboards.
"*Now* is because we were
already in Michigan." Blair threw the words over his shoulder and tried to
infuse them with a carefree attitude he wished he could truly feel. "Why
not take advantage and visit one of the wonders of the natural world?"
"Okay, I'd buy that." Jim
answered, his easy-going attitude sounding far more believable than Blair's.
"But there are five great lakes from what I remember. We were in Detroit
for that conference. Both Huron and Erie are a lot closer to Detroit than Lake
Michigan. And a lot warmer, I'm sure."
"But Lake Michigan is so much
bigger." Blair hoped his forced smile would help him to sound more
convincing though his back was still turned to his friend as he rinsed out the
only mugs he could find, both of which were chipped in several places.
"How could you come to Michigan and not visit *Lake* Michigan?"
Jim said nothing for a long while.
Blair didn't even notice.
"Chief?"
Blair jumped for the second time
that day as he suddenly found Jim standing at his shoulder.
"Talk to me, Sandburg."
"About
what?"
Blair reached for the coffee pot,
but Jim grabbed his hand.
"It's not finished brewing yet,
Chief." Jim was still clutching Blair's hand in his own. "Come on,
talk to me. What's this all about?"
Slowly, hesitantly, Blair allowed
his eyes to meet his partner's determined gaze. With a small smile and a sigh
to signal his resignation, he gave a little nod and then felt his smile grow in
true relief.
"I was ... curious," Blair
said finally.
"About?"
But how could he find the right
words, the *best* words to tell his tale? The words were important. At least,
they were important when they were meant to describe a man who'd been the best
story-teller Blair had ever known.
Still searching his thoughts, Blair
took a deep breath before deciding to plunge right in.
"When I was a kid," he
began, "Naomi had this friend. You know," he shrugged. "Anyway,
he was a folk singer. I remember him playing his guitar for us all the time.
And there was one song in particular, the Edmund Fitzgerald one, the one Gordon
Lightfoot did?"
Jim nodded. "I know it."
"When Joe sang that, it was like
he was telling a story. I mean, I swear I could feel the storm and the waves,
the whole thing. I even dreamed about the sailors."
* * *
The ship was the pride of the American side, coming back
from some mill in Wisconsin.
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most, with a crew and good captain
well seasoned.
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms when they
left fully loaded for Cleveland.
And later that night when the ship's bell rang could it be the north wind
they'd been feelin'?
* * *
"That song was about Lake
Superior, wasn't it?" Jim interrupted Blair's reverie.
"Yeah. But Joe was from around here. He used to talk about all the
lakes, Lake Michigan in particular. He grew up on the water, and he told such
great stories, it was almost like I was right there next to him the whole
time."
* * *
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound, and a wave
broke over the railing.
And every man knew, as the captain did too, 'twas the witch of November come stealin'.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait when the
Gales of November came slashin'.
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain in the face
of a hurricane west wind.
* * *
Focusing his thoughts on the visions
Joe's stories had brought to him, Blair was barely aware of Jim leading him to
the couch. Seemingly in an instant, he was in front of a roaring fire, studying
the flames and relishing the warm cup in his hands.
"So, whatever happened to this
Joe?" Jim asked.
Drawn once again toward the crashing
waves beyond, Blair let his gaze move back to the window. "He, uh..."
Mere words. They could never say enough. Still, they
mattered. They had to be spoken. Blair cleared his throat and took a sip of
coffee. "He went home. Back to Michigan. Back here.
We wrote to each other for a while though. But then one day I got a letter from
someone else, a friend of his. It was November, I remember that."
* * *
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin'"Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya."
At Seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in', he said "Fellas,
it's been good t'know ya"
The captain wired in he had water comin'
in, and the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when its lights went outta sight
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
* * *
"You know that pier out
there?" Blair asked his friend.
Jim just nodded.
"Joe was not a fool, I can tell
you that."
Clearly on alert from the odd
signals Blair knew he was sending him, Jim cocked his head and raised an
eyebrow. Yet he said nothing. He simply waited for Blair to finish his story.
"He wouldn't just...,"
Blair shook his head. "Not even a fool would be stupid enough to walk out
onto that pier on a day like today, right?"
"It would be suicide." Jim
answered, still on alert, perhaps more than before.
"Yeah it would. So why'd he do
it?" Blair's eyes began to water. He was shaking his head, absolutely
dumbfounded, as he met Jim's eyes once more. "Why would he do it? They
said he was washed off the pier. He was swept out into the lake. And they never
even found him. He was just ... gone."
* * *
Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves
turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made
Whitefish Bay if they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'er.
They might have split up or they might have capsized; they
may have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains are the faces and the names of the wives and the sons and
the daughters.
* * *
"Are you sure that wasn't just
a story?" Jim, the detective, asked. "Just a way to
allow him to disappear?"
Blair shrugged. "I don't know.
But if that were the case, why should anyone even bother to write me? He
could've disappeared easily enough without having to give a kid like me any
sort of explanation."
* * *
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings in the rooms of her
ice-water mansion.
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams; her islands and bays are for
sportsmen.
And farther below Lake Ontario takes in what Lake Erie can
send her.
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know with the Gales of November
remembered.
* * *
"He was important to you."
Jim stated the obvious.
"Yeah, he was. And I think I
was important to him, too. I thought I was. I don't know. I just... I could
never imagine that he would want anyone to tell me something like that if it
weren't true. Yet part of me wanted that to be the case, to know he was still
alive. I just... I don't know. I never wanted to believe either story."
Blair looked out the window one more
time. "Why would he do it, Jim? Why would he walk out onto a pier like
that?"
Jim shook his head sadly. "I'm
afraid you'll never find the answer to that, Chief."
"I just thought that maybe
coming here.... I don't know what I thought, Jim." He gave his friend a
frustrated smile.
"You came here to remember
someone who obviously deserves to be remembered."
Blair's smile turned genuine.
"Yeah," he nodded. "Yeah, I guess I did."
"To Joe," Jim raised his
mug and clicked it against Blair's.
"To Joe," Blair answered,
feeling strangely calmed by the gesture. Maybe the fire was starting to thaw
his chilled bones, but somehow he knew it was more than that.
He cast a different look at the
waves this time, one borne out of respect and acceptance. Then he gave his
attention back to Jim, to the man who was filling his life with experiences
that far outshined even the best of Joe's stories.
"Hey,
Jim?" He said after a moment.
"Thanks."
With one more toast with chipped
coffee mugs, Blair finally found himself able to say good-bye to a man he'd
lost long ago.
* * *
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed, in the Maritime
Sailors' Cathedral.
The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine times for each man on the
Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big
lake they call Gitchee Gumee.
"Superior", they said, "never gives up her dead when the 'Gales
of November' come early!"
* * *
~ end ~