Kenneth,
When the wind was still and the moon was dark, swimming in Manitou Lake was like drifting in space. You no doubt remember as much. It’s hard to imagine that a small town in Saskatchewan could attract tourists from across the globe, but that salty water was enchanting. People came from all over to experience the lake’s healing properties, whereas I simply enjoyed it for the buoyancy.
It was August Long of 1972, and I had just got off work at Watrous hospital. I was younger then; my hands were strong and sturdy, my mind keen and sure. Now I’m not so confident. So, I write it down, stamping it on acid-free paper to make it stick. For words—like a wax stamp—leave an indelible mark and a bond that is difficult to tamper with, a bond much like our own. And it is because of this connection that I offer you these pages from my heart. A fleeting moment so bizarre that you will scarcely believe it. I would hesitate if the tables were turned, but I assure you, dear brother, that every following word is true.
As I’m sure you recall, the drive back to Manitou Beach was short yet beautiful. Stunning, really. Especially in the evening when you dipped into the valley. There, the winding road mirrored the waterline, providing a view of the lake beyond the barricade.
I nodded at the water. “I’ll see you soon,” I promised.
A colourful wooden butterfly marked the turn home. Run by Marianne, the Salty Surf Inn was a motel that hosted potash workers, vagabonds, and myself. It was also a one-stop-shop for massage therapy, cross-country ski rentals, and walk-in tattoos.
More cars than usual were parked outside the yellow Inn when I arrived. Down the road, a celebration was underway at Danceland. A wonderful place—that Danceland—‘home of the world-famous dancefloor built on horsehair.’ It felt good on the joints, but when the crowd moved as one, the floor moved along and was likely to make you seasick.
I grabbed my belongings from the trunk and watched as couples vanished into the building.
“Thinking about joining?” a man asked from behind.
I turned to find an elderly couple walking towards me. They had grey hair, smile creases, and were dressed in matching earth tones.
“I forgot that Polka Fest was on this weekend,” I admitted. “Unfortunately, I work in the morning, so I ought to rest tonight.”
The old man sized me up with amusement. “Oh, I see, you’re a local doctor! Well, that is fantastic.”
“It is fantastic,” his wife chimed in pleasantly, emphasizing the middle word. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with all the dances. If you haven’t already, perhaps you’ll meet a nice lady at one of them.”
The couple exchanged an all-knowing glance.
Convinced that I would be the only person under 65, I decided to skip Polka Fest that year. “I hope for my sake that you’re right. You two enjoy the dance for me. I’m going to have a swim instead.”
“Suit yourself,” the woman replied as they shuffled past. “But don’t forget, to dance is to fall in love.”
They disappeared into the masses, and I went up to my room with a smile. I couldn’t help it; old lovers had a way of bringing me joy. Still do, I suppose. Then, after a quick meal of meat and potatoes, I put on my swimming suit and ventured back outside. By that time, it was dark, the wind was still, and the water looked like a perfect sheet of obsidian glass.
Now, you may find it strange that I recall every detail, dear brother, but this night defined my very existence. Each moment carved into my memory as it unfolded, creating sculptures so distinct it was as if every second was chiselled in stone. Events became so easy to trace that revisiting them now is like following a duck through algae.
I stood on the roadside and peered at the salty lake. The dock rested several feet beneath the rocky bank, but I hesitated to run and dive in. Half-blind in the deepening night, I patiently waited for a car to pass. When headlights finally came around the bend, I utilized their illuminating presence to sprint towards the water.
In an instant, the light was gone and I was airborne. Not a wave in sight, the water seamlessly connected to the sky beyond, creating a thick blanket of distant stars that wrapped around me. My hands formed into a spear above my head, and I dove headfirst into the infinite cosmos. An overwhelming sense of emptiness revealed itself when I cut through the water, for nothing was more isolating than Manitou Lake on a moonless night. I submerged completely and would have opened my eyes, but the void was just as black as when they were closed, so it made no difference. Besides, there was the salt.
They say that ‘even a goat can float in Manitou.’ I put the t-shirt slogan to the test. Slowly, the salt lifted me to the surface of the lake, where I bobbed like a piece of driftwood. Ears below the waterline, I fixated on the spectacle above while listening to the muffled sounds of Polka Fest.
“The sky is there for dreamers to gaze upon,” I whispered after several moments of contemplation.
That’s when it touched me. A delicate pressure flicked at my heel from the emptiness below, then slid up my back, exiting the top of my head and creating a line from the open water to the dock behind me. At first, I thought it was lake weed; it was soft, thin, and coated with slime. But it didn’t act as it should. Lake weed sways a little, but this swept the length of my body like a finger drawing a line in sand. Alarmed, my mind raced to make sense of what occurred but failed to find answers. Three times saltier than the ocean, nothing lived in Manitou Lake. Not even crayfish. Confident I felt something I shouldn’t have, an electric impulse surged through my body and without knowing it, I swam towards land, distraught with worry.
Off in the distance, another car rattled like a tin can maraca, and when it flew around the upper corner, a beam of light danced across the water. It was only a flash, but it was enough to showcase several familiar landmarks: The Salty Surf, the rocky bank, and the flimsy ladder climbing up the wooden dock. While these sights brought me comfort, I was promptly stripped of relief when I realized I was no longer alone. Submerged from the chest down in the oily water below the dock was the thin, ghostly silhouette of a man.
My legs fell beneath as my progress towards shore was arrested. The car passed, and in the following darkness, I fell victim to obscurity.
“Stay where you are!” I hollered anxiously. You remember how shrill I could get. There was more to say, but I was unexpectedly silenced by the sound of dripping water. Bewildered, I collected myself, then continued to threaten the dark. “If you move one inch, I’ll smash your ribs like a hornet’s nest!”
If it were light out, I would have climbed the rocky bank to safety, but as it was, I ran the risk of wedging my foot or breaking my ankle between boulders. Regrettably, the ladder was my only means of escape. Never taking my eyes off the intruder’s whereabouts, I slowly paddled towards the dock. The dripping sound—like a leaking faucet in the hollow chambers of my soul—grew louder as I neared the rickety ladder. Now only feet away, I discovered that something was horribly wrong with my tormentor’s breath. Unlike any adventitious sound I had encountered in the hospital, each rise and fall of their chest resembled the opening and closing of a paper fan.
Another vehicle shook its way into reality as two celestial bodies appeared in the darkness. The high passing beams abruptly lit the dock, and as I grabbed for the ladder with trembling fingers, I locked eyes with a nightmare. What I had taken for a man was a fishlike visitor from the abysmal depths of Manitou Lake.
I froze in a stupor, unable to break away from the gaping pupils that stared back at me through intelligent eyes. The surrounding sclera emitted a bioluminescent light that waved subtly like the water the creature was immersed in. Slender and feminine in appearance, the visitor had strikingly delicate features for such hard, scaly skin. With shades of yellow and brown, her mossy green colour perfectly showcased the soft curves of her face and the begonia red gills beyond her jaw. The boney structures quivered with inspiration, and between her trembling lip and oblong eyes, I could see that she was scared. More so than I, for in my effort to escape, I had trapped her behind the bars of an unbalanced ladder.
The vehicle exited the area and the light vanished in a wisp of smoke. Stranded in darkness with this mythological creature, I was surprisingly reminded of a time when you and I were boys.
Scrambling to get home before curfew, I took the shorter yet darker route through farmer Jenson’s field. A decision I regretted immediately. My heart raced as I ran along, not because I was nearly late, but because the shadows were growing crooked and dreadful. Does this sound familiar yet, brother? Finally, when I turned the remaining corner onto our lot, I came across and startled a black bear. Positioned in the middle of the ranch track, it glared at me with calculating eyes as its low grumble revved up like an engine. It howled madly, spraying saliva across its paws. I froze. As a boy no older than ten, I didn’t know how to act. I wanted to run, but against instinct and anything father would have taught us, I crouched down and held out a shaky hand.
“It’s okay. Nothing can harm you while I’m here,” I whispered, as mother often did when we were afraid.
The bear stood on its hind legs, and though I was terrified, I didn’t recoil. Even when it charged, I held position and made no effort to reclaim my hand. I repeated the sentiment and the bear skidded to a halt, landing less than two yards away. It huffed, and when two bear cubs ran across the distant path into Jenson’s field, she turned and followed.
Surfacing from memory into the salty water, I let go of the ladder and pushed towards the belly of the lake, where I waited and wondered if I would be pulled beneath or left afloat.
“It’s okay,” I said reassuringly. “Nothing can harm you while I’m here.”
A cluster of air bubbles formed on my left and the creature emerged in silence. I glanced over my shoulder and there she was, floating on her back beside me, glistening in the starlight and looking towards the heavens as if pondering the greater questions in life.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked after a period of stillness.
She took one brief look at me before returning her inquisitive mind to the stars. Then, to my great surprise, she spoke:
“Truly,” she said with a faraway voice, sounding as though she talked through a sizable aquarium. “There is nothing like it where I am from.”
“Where are you from?” I asked, astounded by my own ease.
“Below,” she returned.
“Does that mean that I’m from above?”
“Yes. We are separated by the shore but are of the same salt, you and I.”
I let my feet drop to float vertically and brushed the salt from my brow. From there, I watched as her gills pulled and expelled life-giving water in a gas exchange too complex to explain.
“How did you learn to speak?” I continued.
“Water is a conductor in which words travel far,” she said with that same peculiar voice. “From the lowest point, I listened, and after many years—I understood.”
“That’s incredible!” I exclaimed, feeling my hummingbird heart flutter faster. “Have you heard talk of our magic water then? Surely you have. Do you think it helped you learn our language? Is there more to the salty water than we’re aware of?”
A transparent membrane covered her eyes then retracted. “You are very curious,” she replied. “Do you always ask so many questions?”
“Only when I meet someone as unique as yourself,” I said, omitting how conversations with legendary creatures raised many queries.
She repeated the tail end of my sentence with what could only be described as a smile. “No, it cannot teach you to speak nor understand. But yes, I have heard people talk about the healing properties of our water. They say it can cure many ailments. It can heal your skin,” she paused to look at me, “but it cannot mend a lonely heart.”
We held eyes before her attention snapped to the road with the alertness of a rabbit detecting a coyote. Visibly disheartened, her external gills rattled, sending specks of water flying before she returned her eyes to mine. When two small orbs appeared in her bottomless pupils, I knew our time was over.
“The sky is there for dreamers to gaze upon,” she said in a low-pitched, broken voice.
“That it is.”
“Better catch a glimpse before you’re gone.”
The area lit up like a stadium at night and she sunk out of existence. A single strand of lake weed slid across my heel then dissolved into the void. The dripping of water, the folding of paper fans, and her inexplicable eyes—all gone in an instant. The dance was over.
I’m not sure why I waited so long to tell you, dear brother. Maybe I was worried about being ridiculed or judged, but it feels right to share it now. It feels important, for not only must I preserve the memory, but in my evening years, I must convince myself it is true. Perhaps this is the legacy I will leave behind, a story that will undoubtedly become a tall tale.
Nothing at Manitou Beach has changed since I moved away. Hawthorn grows in the park, Danceland brings in the dancers, and the Salty Surf still feels like home. I return to the Inn each Polka Fest, rent my old room, and walk to the lake in starlight. As the Hop-Scotch Polka seeps out of Danceland, I can’t help but wonder if it was the music or solitude that once brought her to me.
I dive into the lake as I have for the last 41 years and confirm her words. She was right, you know. The water comforts the joints and eases the mind, but it cannot mend a lonely heart. A sigh escapes as I look up at the indistinguishable yet individual specs of the Milky Way. The faint glow reminds me of the bioluminescent light I once saw in her eyes. And though I am an empty husk without her, I am whole whenever I bask under the boundless beauty of the stars.
The sky is there for dreamers to gaze upon, dear brother.
Love always,
Thomas
