Authors: Suzanne Stengl
Angel Wings (14 page)
Charlie had turned forty-one last Wednesday. A week ago today. The two of them had celebrated at the Powder Horn Saloon in town and Charlie had talked about how happy he was to have Gaven working for him over the summer . . . and would he consider staying on over the winter for the snowmobile and dog sled tours.
Gaven, of course, had said no.
“You checked her out?” he asked his uncle.
“She’ll be fine.”
“This is her first open water.”
“I said she’ll be fine. She’s a quick study.”
Gaven closed his eyes for a moment. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t take her. Not with the group.
He looked over to where she sat. She was taking off her clothes, and—he’d been right—all that baggy clothing hid a shapely body. She wore a one-piece navy bathing suit.
“Is it true about the legend?” the newlywed woman asked.
“What legend?” the woman from the older couple asked.
Christie McFee shook out her wet suit and started to pull it on.
“There’s a legend,” Charlie said, neatly slipping into his spiel. “When the Old Town of Bandit Creek flooded in 1911, the miners left gold behind. Many have tried to find it. Several have come close. But anyone who tries to take the gold . . . dies.”
Charlie paused in his chatter, waiting for the attention of his audience.
It was a stupid legend to perpetuate. But it might keep the tourists from poking around the Old Town too much. If they tried to go into the submerged buildings, they’d think twice. Maybe.
Of course, the legend had not stopped the Wreck Divers. Many of whom had come back with artifacts of the Old Town and sold them. Someone had even found books, which had been given to the Bandit Creek Library for restoration.
“Are the buildings still standing?” the newlywed man asked.
“Most of them,” Charlie answered.
“Why don’t they rot?”
“Same reason shipwrecks don’t rot,” Charlie said. “Especially in freshwater lakes, like this one. The wood will be preserved. Even in sea water, as long as the salinity is low, the old wooden ships have lasted for centuries.”
“Sweet,” Ripley and Terrence said in unison, like they always did. The boys had heard Charlie’s tourist patter at least a dozen times.
“How did the town flood?” the woman from the older couple asked.
“Landslide,” Charlie answered. “Off Crow Mountain. The rubble dammed the creek back in 1911.”
“And everybody in the town died,” Ripley said, like he always did.
“Not everybody,” Charlie carried on. “Many got out in time, but a lot of lives were lost.”
“And their ghosts still haunt Lost Lake,” Terrence said, like
he
always did.
The teenagers both got into the spirit of the tour. Charlie didn’t even have to pay them. Although, he did give them a discounted rate for diving.
“Nowadays,” Charlie went on with his talk, “we’re learning a lot about flooded forests. With hydroelectric dams being built, a lot of timber is submerged. It’s never been economically feasible to cut down the trees before building the dam, but now, some efforts are being made to harvest the timber underwater.”
“Is that wood any good?” the man from the older couple asked.
“As good as new,” Charlie said. “It’s the bacteria that eat the wood. There’s very little oxygen in the lake water for bacteria to survive. Some flooded forests contain premium wood.”
“Can we take anything from the town?” the newlywed man asked.
“Not unless you want the ghosts to get you,” Ripley said.
“The Bandit Creek Ladies Historical Society is working to have the Old Town declared a national historic site,” Charlie said. “Most of the artifacts recovered from the Old Town are in the museum at the Town Hall. Be sure to stop by. It’s open from one until five every afternoon.”
“I think this is too small,” Christie McFee said, as she struggled into her neoprene.
“Needs to be tight, girl,” Charlie told her. “Fills with water. If you have too much water inside, your body can’t heat it and you’ll be cold.”
Gaven pulled his uncle aside. “She doesn’t want to dive.”
“She’s just a little anxious,” Charlie said. “She did fine in the pool. Normal to be anxious for your first time out.” He took another bite of his sandwich, and then, talking with his mouth full, he added, “Loosen up, boy. Ya worry too much.”
· · · · ·
Christie squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to take slow, calming breaths. The air temperature was at least eighty degrees, the sun beat down on them, and she was wearing this horrible, sweltering, tight wet suit.
Charlie, the older man, stood at the wheel,
not
wearing a wet suit. That probably meant he would not dive with them. He would stay onboard. It made sense, that someone would stay with the boat. But she’d never done this before, so she had no idea what would happen.
As Charlie guided the boat out to the center of the lake, he kept talking about the old Bandit Creek. About 1911, and the landslide damming the creek. And the water level rising over several days, and the Old Town now forty-eight feet underwater. And something about it all being preserved because the water was cold and because there was little oxygen. Who cared?
She tugged the hood under her chin trying to let a sliver of breeze touch her skin and praying today would soon be over.
Charlie’s banter continued. He was giving them a variation of the story she’d read in the Bandit Creek Gazette when she’d searched online. About the gold left behind by the miners.
Gold qualified as treasure. This dive qualified as diving for treasure.
Suddenly she felt water splash over her face and seep into the neck opening of her hood, trailing a cool path inside the wet suit. Blessed cold and refreshing water.
“More?” the younger man asked her. She couldn’t remember what he’d said his name was.
“Please,” she answered.
She held her face up while he poured water over her head. He didn’t have his hood on yet. A slight breeze sifted through his dark hair.
“Anybody else?”
The older woman asked for a splash of water. Everyone else was tolerating the heat.
“I’m okay,” one of the teenage boys said.
“Me too,” the other one said. “We’re almost above the Old Town now.”
Then the engine cut and the boat stopped traveling, and started bobbing in the water . . . in a nauseating rocking motion.
The younger man, the Divemaster, was talking. “Check your buddy’s equipment. Make sure you have enough air in your BCD for the surface. Charlie will help you.” The group paired off, each going through what looked like a standard checklist.
“Christie and I will go first,” the Divemaster said. “When we’re all in the water, give me the Okay signal. Then we’ll descend together.”
“Hey Gaven,” one of the teenagers called out. “Is it all right if Terrence and I lead the way into the Old Town?”
“You can lead,” Gaven the Divemaster said. “But don’t get too far ahead.” He continued with his instructions. “We’ll be at an average depth of forty-eight feet for about forty minutes. Stay close to your buddy and keep everyone in sight. None of you are qualified as Wreck Divers so don’t go inside the buildings.”
“Yeah, the ghosts hate it when you do that. A couple of weeks ago, there was a guy out here who—”
“That’s enough, Ripley.” Gaven cut off the story.
She hadn’t read anything about a diving accident. And now she was glad she hadn’t done any further research.
“All set?” Gaven asked, speaking just to her.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. “I think so,” she said, still sitting on the bench, trying to focus on the horizon, trying to stop the nausea she felt with the pitching boat.
He clamped an air tank to a vest—the BCD—that’s what Charlie had called it. “Stand up.”
She did, holding the back of the bench with one hand, balancing herself as the boat swayed.
Gaven slipped a yellow weight belt around her waist. “Right hand release, remember?” He bent his head, trying to look in her eyes. But she avoided his gaze. She didn’t want him to see how scared she was.
There was so much to remember. She felt him take her hand, her right hand, and gently place it over the weight belt buckle.
“Try it.”
· · · · ·
The Ghost and Christie McFee is available at
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