ONE WILD DREAM
Jeanne watched a blue and white airplane soar aloft over a lake of pure
blue. Now the plane was two miles away, now one mile, and now—now it was
right over her head. But what was this? A tiny speck appeared beneath the
airplane. It grew and grew. Now it was the size of a walnut, now a
baseball, now a toy balloon, now—but now it was right over her head! It
had fallen from the plane. It was big, big as a small barrel. It would
crush her!
But no! She would catch it. She put out her hands and caught it easily as
she might have a real toy balloon.
She looked at it closely. It was a barrel-like affair, an ancient churn.
“Not heavy at all,” she whispered.
But what was this? She was sinking, going down, down, down. She was in
the lake, sinking, sinking. But that did not appear to matter. She could
breathe easily. The churn was still in her hands when she reached bottom.
Fishes came to stare at her and at the churn, friendly fishes they
appeared to be. They stood away and stared.
But now they were gone, scooting away in great fright. A scaly monster
with big staring eyes rushed at her. She screamed, made one wild
rush—then suddenly awoke to find herself sitting up in bed. She had been
dreaming.
But what bed was this—what place? For one full moment she could not tell.
It was all so very strange! The ceiling was low. There were two other
narrow beds in the room. A large black pipe ran through the center of the
room. The place was cold. She shuddered, then drew the covers over her.
Then, of a sudden, she remembered. She was in a fisherman’s cottage on
Isle Royale in Lake Superior. She had come there by airplane with Sandy,
who was to watch men trap wild moose.
Her real airplane ride was to be a long remembered adventure. To go
sailing over miles and miles of dark blue waters, then to catch sight of
something very white that really was an island but which, at a distance,
looked like a white frosted cake resting on a dark blue tablecloth—oh,
that had given her a real thrill.
“All that was no dream,” she assured herself, “for here are my two good
friends, Vivian and Violet Carlson, sleeping close by me in their own
beds. And that,” she decided, “is why I dreamed of an airplane.”
But was it? And what of the barrel-churn? The churn—ah, yes, she
remembered now. Vivian had shown it to her in her curiosity shop. It was
closed tight, all rusted shut, and it had been picked up from the bottom
of the lake in a fisherman’s net.
“But it’s heavy,” she told herself. “I’d like to know what’s inside it,
if anything at all. I’ll find out, too. You can make things unscrew, even
if they’re terribly rusted, by putting kerosene on them. I’ve seen father
do that. I’ll ask Vivian if I may try to do it, perhaps tomorrow.”
For a moment, lying there listening to the crackling of the fire in the
stove below their room, she felt all comfortable and happy. She was in a
strange little world, a fisherman’s world on Isle Royale. Everything was
new and lovely. There were sleds and snowshoes, wild moose to trap,
everything.
Then of a sudden her brow wrinkled. She had recalled the airplane in that
dream. What did it mean? Then, as in a vision, she saw a circle, and
inside the circle D.X.123.
“I saw it at the bottom of that little lost lake,” she told herself as a
chill ran up her spine. “Anyway, I thought I saw it. And I must know!”
She clenched her hands hard. “I must know for sure! I’ll just _make_
Vivian come there with me. I’ll tell her to look down there, ask her to
tell me what she sees, then I’ll know for sure whether it is real or only
a sort of day-dream.
“I must,” she whispered, “must—must—must—”
Once again she was lost to the world, this time to a land of dreamless
sleep.
When she awoke, Vivian was sitting up in bed.
“Hello, there!” was Vivian’s cheery greeting. “Sleep well?”
“Fine!” Jeanne laughed. “Everything seems strange, but I love it.”
“Not quite like a city,” Vivian agreed, “but we all like it. We seem so
secure. Father earns enough in summer to buy flour, sugar, hams, bacon
and lots of canned stuff, so we won’t go hungry. The lake brings us some
wood and the ridges give us plenty more. We won’t get cold. So—”
“So you’re safe as a meadow mouse in his hole!” Jeanne said happily.
A half hour later she was seated at a long table pouring syrup on
steaming pancakes. A sturdy, bronze-faced young man sat at her side.
“Are you the moose-trapper?” she asked timidly.
“Why, yes.” The young man’s hearty laugh reassured her. “Yes, that’s what
you might call me.
“Like to see one trapped?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes! Oh, yes, I’d love it!” Jeanne cried quickly.
“All right. You and Vivian come along with me after breakfast. We’ve
baited the trap with some very tempting birch twigs. We’ll watch it from
the ridge above. I shouldn’t wonder if we’d get one. Anyway, you’ll see
the trap.”
Donning mackinaws and heavy sweaters a half hour later, they crept out
into the frosty air of morning—Jeanne, Vivian, Sandy MacQueen, and the
moose-trapper.
Snow lay thick everywhere. About the ends of ridges it had been blown
clear, only to be found piled in drifts not far away. In quiet spots it
was soft and deep. Only the use of snowshoes made travel possible. In
silence they marched single file up the rise at the back of the house,
then through a forest of spruce and birch to the barren rocky ridge
above.
From this vantage point they could see far out over the dark endless
waters of Lake Superior. But this did not interest them. Their eyes were
focused on a narrow stretch of low growing timber almost directly beneath
them.
“You can’t see the corral fence for the trees,” the moose-trapper
explained in a whisper. “Only here and there you catch a glimpse of it.
We built a four-foot fence of woven wire at first. But the moose,” he
chuckled, “they didn’t know it was a fence, so they lifted their long
legs and hopped over the top of it. After that we put poles above the
wire. That worked better. We—”
“Listen!” Jeanne broke in. “What was that?” Her keen ears had caught some
sound from behind.
“Might be a moose,” Vivian whispered. “It _is_ a moose. Look!”
“Oh!” Jeanne started back.
“He won’t harm you,” Vivian whispered.
The moose, not a stone’s throw away, was trying in vain to reach the
lowest branch of a balsam tree.
“How huge he is! And such terrible antlers!” Jeanne crowded close to her
companions.
“He’ll be losing those antlers soon,” Vivian whispered back. “They grow
new ones every year. He—”
At that moment the moose, whose keen ear had apparently detected a sound,
made a quick, silent move. Next instant he was gone.
“He—he vanished like magic!” Jeanne exclaimed. “And with never a sound.”
“Most silent creature in the world.” The moose-trapper’s voice was low.
“And one of the most harmless. It seems strange that anyone should wish
to kill such an attractive wild thing. And yet, thousands pay large
prices for the privilege of shooting them! It’s up to the younger
generations to be less cruel.”
“Girls don’t wish to kill wild things,” said Jeanne.
“That’s right. Most of them seem to have a high regard for the life of
all creatures,” the moose-trapper agreed. “They have their part to do,
though. They can teach the boys of their own neighborhood and especially
their own brothers to be more humane. We—
“Look!” he exclaimed. The quality of his whisper changed. “Down there is
the trap. See that large square made of boards that seem to hang in the
air?”
“Yes, yes!” Jeanne replied eagerly.
“That’s the door to the trap. The moose springs the trap. You see there’s
a narrow corral. It’s half full of birch and balsam boughs. The moose
smells these. He is hungry. He goes through the door, munches away at the
branches, at last pulls at one. This drags at a string and down goes the
door. He’s a prisoner.
“But a _happy_ prisoner,” he hastened to add. “There are ten moose in the
big corral. When we got them they were little more than skin and bones.
Now they are getting fat. We feed them well.”
It is doubtful if Jeanne heard more than half that was said. Her eyes
were upon a brown creature that moved slowly through the thin forest
below. “He’s going toward the trap—our moose,” she was saying to herself.
“Now he’s only fifty yards away. And now he walks still faster. He’s
smelled the bait in the trap. He—
“What will happen to those who are trapped?” she asked quite suddenly.
“Probably be taken to a game sanctuary on the mainland where there’s
plenty of moose feed,” the trapper said.
“Oh!” Jeanne whispered. “Then I hope we get him.”
“Looks as if we might.” The moose-trapper’s face shone with hope. “He’s
the finest specimen we’ve seen yet.”
Moments passed, moments that were packed with suspense. Now the great
brown creature stood sniffing at the entrance to the trap. Now he
advanced a step or two. Now he thrust out his nose in a vain attempt to
reach a branch that was inside. Jeanne laughed low. He surely cut a
comical picture, long legs, extended neck, bulging eyes.
Another step, two, three, four, five.
“He—he’s inside!” Jeanne breathed.
Yes, the moose was inside. He was munching twigs and small branches, yet
nothing happened. The suspense continued. Would he satisfy his hunger and
leave without springing the trap? Jeanne studied the moose-trapper’s
face. She read nothing there.
Of a sudden the moose, seeming to grow impatient of his small twigs,
reached far out for a large balsam bough, and bang!—the trap was sprung.
Startled, the moose sprang forward. Next instant he was racing madly
about the small enclosure. Almost at once an opening appeared and he
dashed through it to disappear from sight. “He—he’s gone!” Jeanne
exclaimed.
“Only into the larger corral.” The moose-trapper chuckled. “He’ll find a
number of old friends there. They will tell him they’ve found a good
boarding place. Soon he will be as happy as any of them. And say!” he
cried, “What a grand big fellow he is! Jeanne, I believe you have brought
good luck with you.”
“I—I hope so.” Jeanne beamed.
That bright winter’s day passed all too soon. At times Jeanne thought of
asking Vivian to accompany her to the top of the ridge and down to the
little lost lake, but always she was busy with household duties. Night
found the request lingering unexpressed on her lips.
“Darkness fell on the wings of night.”
Lamps were lit, kerosene lamps that gave forth a steady yellow glow.
Pulpwood logs, gathered from the shore where they were stranded, roared
and crackled in the great stove.
Jeanne sat dreaming by the fire. Not all her dreams were happy ones. One
thought haunted her: she must take Vivian to that little lost lake. What
would she see? What would she?
Jeanne was asking herself this question when her thoughts were caught and
held by a conversation between the young airplane pilot who had flown
them to the island and Sandy MacQueen, the reporter.
“I’d think you could write a whole book about mystery planes,” the pilot
suggested.
“Mystery planes?” Sandy sat up straight.
“Yes,” the pilot replied. “Planes that have flown away into the blue and
just vanished. There have been several, you know.” His tone was earnest.
“During the war there were aces of the air that vanished. What happened?
Did they grow sick of the terror of war and just fly away?
“There have been several in recent years,” he went on. “One started for
Central America, the X.Z.43. Nothing was ever heard of it. One headed for
Japan, the B.L.92. And then there was the D.X.123. Queer about that!”
“The D.X.123!” Jeanne whispered the words. She wanted to scream them. She
said nothing out loud, just sat there staring. D.X.123! Those were the
letters and figures she had seen down at the bottom of the lost lake. Or,
_had_ she seen them? Had she just imagined them? Had she seen them in a
paper and was this only an after-image?
She wanted to ask the pilot what happened to the D.X.123. She could not.
At last she rose from her place.
“I—I’m going for a little walk,” she said. “All alone. I won’t get lost.
I’ll watch the light from the house. It will guide me back.”
The crisp night air was like ice on a hot summer day to her burning
cheeks. Her mind was full of wild thoughts. How strange life was!
Then she looked up at the heavens. The stars were there, had been there
since earliest history of man, and long before that. Back of the stars
was God. And God was from everlasting to everlasting.
“God guide me aright!” she prayed reverently.
So she wandered on and on over the trail that ran up the ridge and led to
a view of the great Lake Superior. She wanted to see the moon as it shone
upon the dark waters of night.
She was not destined to have her wish. Suddenly as she rounded that clump
of spruce trees, she heard a groan that sent a chill of terror coursing
up her spine.
Turning quickly about, she saw, not ten paces behind her, the most
gigantic moose that had ever lived, or so it seemed to her. His antlers
were like broad flat beams and his eyes, as she threw her flashlight’s
glow upon them, shone like fire.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Go back! Go back!” But the giant moose came
straight on.