The Lake of Flies
by Brian Biswas
It was never determined precisely when Max decided to murder his ex-roommate from college. But when the deed was done it set in motion a chain of events which, like the ticking of a fine Swiss watch, was later seen to be inevitable. Perhaps the whole sordid affair was inevitable, triggered when Max met Stan on the quad of Xavier University, or the moment Max was born, or the moment the universe came into being 13.8 billion years ago. Or even before that time.
Max lived in northern Minnesota. He was thirty-four years old. A handsome man, solidly built, with dark-brown hair and engaging eyes. He was a canoe guide with an outfitter in Ely. It was while attending a conference on wilderness medicine that he ran into Stan, whom he had not seen since college. Stan was six months younger. Wiry frame, blond hair, bushy eyebrows. There was a ragged scar on his neck, the result of a motorcycle accident when he was eighteen. Though they'd graduated a dozen years earlier, they recognized each other at once. Stan said he was a rehabilitation therapist at a hospital in Milwaukee. He smiled knowingly when Max told him his occupation. It was at dinner that evening when Max suggested Stan visit later that summer. He would show him the crystal lakes of the Boundary Waters. Stan jumped at the opportunity; he could use a break from work, he said.
Max and Stan roomed together at Xavier for two years before Stan moved in with Sally. Even back then Stan expressed interest in accompanying Max on one of his excursions to the Boundary Waters area, trips which occurred every August before Fall semester began. Unfortunately, they never found the time.
At over one million acres, the Boundary Waters area in northern Minnesota contains boreal and hardwood trees, granite rock formations as well as volcanic and sedimentary rocks. Bears, moose, beavers, bald eagles, and loons all call the place home. With over ten thousand lakes and nearly as many hiking trails, it is a recreational paradise.
Max and Stan headed out from Ely in Sandy, the birchbark canoe Max had lovingly constructed back in '93. The vessel was sixteen feet long, narrow-bottomed, with a well-rounded bilge, and gently flaring topsides. It was fourteen inches deep at the center, with a prow height of twenty-four inches. A real beauty.
They slipped into the water at Newfound Lake, a long, thin body of water that emptied into horseshoe-shaped Sucker Lake. They crossed into Canada at Prairie Portage, on the western end of Sucker, then headed northeast through Birch Lake, Carp Lake, and Sheridan Lake. A portage--the trail they'd take from one lake to the next--from Sheridan led to a string of smaller lakes, known as the Man Chain. Max's friend was exhausted when they reached That Man Lake by nightfall.
Max and Stan beached their canoe on one of six islands which dotted That Man Lake, a peanut-shaped isle, with birch trees on one end and sandy beach on the other. Two single-man tents were up in twenty minutes. Then they fired up the Coleman. While black bean chili was cooking, Max took his hand-ax and cleared shrub from around the campsite. Stan gathered wood for a fire.
Max heard the thrumming bass of bullfrogs. On the eastern shore, he spied a quartet of loons after their own dinner. A school of small, dull-gray fish was visible in the shallow water off to his right. The pristine lakes of the Boundary Waters teemed with walleye, pike, bass, and trout. Later he would go fishing.
Not looking where he was going, Max tripped over a branch and went sprawling. The loons must have seen him--or heard the branch snapping in two--for they took off, slowly rising into a deep-blue Minnesota sky, a soaring, graceful flight.
After dinner, Max and Stan spoke of the week ahead. Their intent was to use this site as a base camp from which to explore the other lakes in the chain: No Man Lake, This Man Lake, and Other Man Lake. There was a large island with high, steep slopes at one end of Other Man Lake which afforded magnificent views. And lowland to the north of This Man Lake where they would likely see kingfishers, beavers, and river otters. Max told Stan it would be a week he would never forget.
The night was peaceful and still. Around 6 A.M., Max awoke to the dulcet sounds of loons as they settled on the lake in search of food.
Max opened his tent and stepped outside. The air was cool. No sign of life from his friend's tent. He walked the thirty yards to the opposite end of the island--the rocky end. He looked out over the lake, at the rising sun that mingled mists of grey and gold with the lake's blue waters. He mimicked the call of the loons, but they paid no heed.
"What you up to?" It was Stan.
Max turned around, startled. "Thought you were asleep."
"Been up for over an hour. Thought I smelled a bear."
He hadn't, of course. Max would have smelled it as well. The scent of bear was not something you ever forgot.
Max had been sixteen years old. He and his father were canoeing for the first time in the Boundary Waters. They camped on an island in Emerald Lake, so named because of the greenish tint of its waters. It was their third day out. The man at the outfitter agency told them bears had been spotted in that area the previous month, and to take precautions. Max's father said that meant to camp on an island far from shore where they wouldn't be bothered. But it hadn't worked out that way. Max awoke in the middle of the night and smelled the most God-awful stench. He lay quivering in the darkness, too afraid to call out to his father. He heard a crunching sound as some creature rambled through the camp site. The smell grew stronger until Max felt stale breath upon him. He must have fainted for the next thing he knew it was no longer night. And the smell was gone.
At breakfast the next morning Max told his father what had happened. The crazy old man hadn't smelled a thing, had slept through it all! Max's story was corroborated later that day when they spied a young bear wadding along the shore. His mother would be near, Max's father said. And they wouldn't want to mess with her.
They left Emerald Lake, taking a long portage that led to Plough Lake. No signs of bears, though they did see a variety of waterfowl and a family of otters. The sky was deep and blue. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of birch trees that lined the shore. It may have been at that moment when Max realized this was the place for him.
Max and Stan's destination that day was the third lake in the chain: This Man Lake. It had the longest portage of any of the lakes in the chain, about half a mile. And it would take them over hilly, rocky terrain.
They ate a simple breakfast of eggs and home fries, washed up, then loaded Sandy with the day's provisions. At precisely 7:45 they embarked. Once on the lake, their paddles slipped noiselessly through calm waters.
"Man, this is the life," Stan said when the island was fifty yards behind them. "Should have done this years ago." He paused. "How long you been a guide out here, Maxwell?" Stan had always called Max by that name, even back in college. Max hated it then. He hated it now.
"Coming up on five years," he replied. "And, yeah, it's the lifestyle for me. Peace. Calm. Tranquility."
"And women."
Max shot him a puzzled look.
"Oh, come on." Stan laughed. "Sought-after tour guide. Out here away from it all. Must be lots of time for foolin'."
"Not so much." Max paused. "I miss Sally."
The canoe lurched forward as Max gave it a series of deep, strong strokes.
Stan looked across the lake wondering whether he should bring the subject up. Then he realized Max already had. "Sorry about stealing your girl," he said. "You forgive me?"
"Sure."
"If I hadn't, you'd never have found Emma, you know. And she's some gal."
"Was . . ." Max emphasized, "until Jack took her away."
Stan hadn't known. He shrugged. "Not my fault if you could never hold onto a woman." Stan meant it as a joke, but Max didn't laugh.
He felt anger slowly beginning to burn, and he changed the subject. "You and Sally doing well?"
"We get along."
Max detected a frown.
"And the kids? There's two of them, right?"
Stan nodded. "Jennifer and Susan. Six and ten. Quite a handful--both of them." He paused. "You know, I love my life, wouldn't trade it for the world, but I envy yours. Heading out to a lake whenever you want. Must be nice."
"It is nice."
The canoe was approaching the eastern end of That Man Lake. They beached her, consumed a pouch of trail mix, and cut through a copse of cedar trees to begin the portage to No Man Lake. The trail was smooth and sandy, level all the way, about a quarter of a mile. When No Man Lake came into view Stan gasped. It was one of the prettiest lakes in the region. A small, nearly circular body of clear-blue water, with birch and cedar trees lining the shore.
They made their way across in ten minutes, aided by a gentle south-westerly wind, and landed on the northern portage that led to This Man Lake. This trail was three feet wide and well-marked. Max took the backpack and paddles. Stan shouldered the fifty-pound canoe. Maple and birch trees loomed skyward in a canopy that turned daytime into night.
Along the way they saw red squirrels, robins, wrens, and red-winged blackbirds. They inhaled the aroma of fallen leaves and of wild aster blossoms. They heard a yowling sound off in the distance which Max did not recognize. A lynx, perhaps. They were rare in these parts, but Max had come across one once or twice. There were blackberry bushes along one side of the trail. Max said they needed to be on the lookout for bears who'd been spotted earlier that season.
The trail rose slowly at first, then became steep and rocky, leveling off at a height of about fifty feet. At that point the trees thinned out and they could see clearly to This Man Lake, about a quarter mile away.
Max saw something else.
Off to his left, about two hundred yards away, was a small lake, perfectly circular, and surrounded by small pines and brush.
"What's that?" he said, motioning Stan to halt. Stan lifted the canoe from his shoulders and set it on the side of the trail.
Max opened the backpack and took out a map. They'd gone maybe halfway along the portage. At that spot there was a small unnamed lake, but, according to the map, it was further inland. Perhaps this was an unknown lake?
"Let's investigate," Max said.
He took the backpack, which held water, trail mix and the ax, and headed off down the path, using the ax to clear the way. Stan followed at his heels, eager to check out the unknown as well.
It was perhaps thirty minutes later when the foliage thinned, and they found themselves at the edge of a granite slope which led to the lake below.
The lake was about thirty yards wide. It was surrounded by granite rock that rose at a steep angle, making access to the water impossible. It looked surreal, sunlight glistening off the granite as if it were polished glass. The only reason they'd seen the lake was because of the height of the trail at that point of the portage.
It was a drop of perhaps thirty feet to the water's surface. But how Max would have loved to reach the water! It was coal-black and seemed to undulate, slowly rising and falling as if it were a living, breathing thing.
It was.
Pulling out the binoculars, Max saw that the surface of the lake was covered by a thick layer of flies. There must have been hundreds of thousands, feeding on the kettle's algae. The sun reflecting off the flies' wings made the surface resemble a gigantic compound eye. A glistening ommatidium. Max gazed upon it, mesmerized. He felt as if he was peering into the mind of an intelligence that had taken over the lake and was lying in wait. He did not know for what. But it seemed to be drawing him in.
"I know it's none of my business," Max said abruptly, "but are you and Sally having problems?"
"Let's just say it's not what it was, but I make do--if you know what I mean."
Stan smiled, and Max's anger, which had been steadily brewing, reached a crescendo.
"Here," Max said, handing the binoculars to Stan. "Take a look."
Stan scooted to the edge of the granite slope, as far as he deemed safe, and crouched down on his knees, peering through the binoculars at the dark mass below. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed.
The blunt end of the ax came down hard against Stan's skull. He slumped forward without a sound, his head striking the granite. Max stared at him awhile, the ax poised to strike a second blow if needed. It wasn't.
Max put his right foot against Stan's shoulder blades and pushed. The dead man tumbled down the embankment, landing with a splash in the black waters, scattering thousands of flies which rose up in a huge dark cloud.
A faint grayness crept across the once blue sky.
Back in Ely the next evening, Max consoled a bereaved Sally Hobart who'd flown in from Milwaukee. Sally was a petite woman with luminous light-green eyes and shoulder-length auburn hair, finely-drawn features, immaculate skin. It was easy to see why Max had been so taken with her.
But now there were bags under her eyes and tears were flowing down her cheeks.
They'd been on This Man Lake when it happened, Max told her. Stan spotted something in the water and leaned over the canoe to get a better look. Too far as it turned out. The vessel overturned. The edge of the canoe struck Max on his head, leaving him dazed. That was all it took. Stan must have panicked, flailed about. There was nothing Max could have done. When he came to his senses, Stan was nowhere to be seen. This Man Lake was wide and long--and about a hundred feet deep. It would be searched, of course, but they might never find the body. She needed to be prepared for that.
When he'd finished telling Sally what had happened, he took her hands in his.
"I'm here if you ever need something," he said. "You know that, right?"
He felt a squeeze.
"Thanks." She smiled.
Max wrote to Sally several times over the next few months to see how she was getting along. She told him it was hard, but that she was doing okay. He told her anecdotes about the crazy times he and Stan had back in their college days, things he thought she'd appreciate. He even joked once about how after Stan had stolen her away he'd told Stan he'd never be forgiven. Stan had worried about that, she told Max. About his taking her away from Max. Stan hadn't wanted it to ruin their friendship--it had for a time--but he couldn't deny what had blossomed between him and Sally.
Max felt rage burning within his breast when he read those words. Only time would tell, he thought, if a different flower now would bloom.
Max didn't hear from Sally again until nearly a year had passed. Then one evening in early August he got a call. The first anniversary of Stan's death was a week away, she said. She asked if he would take her out to the lake where the accident had occurred.
Of course, Max told her. It was the very least he could do. The Man Chain was one of the most tranquil areas in the Boundary Waters. Perhaps they could camp for a day or two.
Sally asked again, her voice trembling: how had it happened?
Max felt himself swoon as he tried to recall what he had initially told her. It seemed so long ago. There had been a storm, he lied. He remembered feeling surprised, for storms rarely occurred in the morning hours. When the dark clouds gathered, they were on the portage that led to Other Man Lake. The air was heavy and moist. They never should have gone onto the lake, he said, but Stan insisted. Max would never forgive himself for agreeing. When they were three-quarters of the way across, the winds began to blow. The canoe was swaying and . . . He stopped. It was too horrible to recall.
There was a long pause. Then: "Didn't Stan die on This Man Lake? That's what the police said. That's the lake I've imagined for nearly a year. That's the lake I want to see."
"Yes, that was the one," Max replied, his voice tense. "As I said, everything is all jumbled up."
"And they didn't say anything about a storm. One would think that day would be seared in your memory."
"Yes," he said. "I guess I'm confused."
There was a long pause. "I'm confused, too," she said.
Max felt his heart flutter. No, he'd never gotten over Sally, nor--he felt sure--had she gotten over him.
"It was near here," Max said as they reached the western end of This Man Lake. He was in the rear of the canoe. Sally was in the bow, her paddle low in the water. "I remember those sun-bleached cedars along the southern bank. There are no islands on this part of the lake and we were far from shore. Stan didn't have a chance."
She turned around to face him. He saw that her eyes were glazed.
"I know how hard this must be for you, Sally."
The air was deathly quiet. A flock of cedar waxwings spangled the sky, their yellow and blue tail feathers lit by sunlight. Max pulled his paddle from the water and laid it flat across the hull. "It's beautiful out here, isn't it? So peaceful. So still."
"Yes."
"Sally . . ." He reached for her hand, but she pulled it back.
"I know what you're thinking," he said, "and I suppose you're right."
"What am I thinking?"
"That with Stan gone I'm hoping we can rekindle what we had."
She bit her lip, stifling words.
"Maybe I need to forget about the past," he said. "But I can't."
Her composure vanished.
"I've lost my husband," she said, her voice scalding like a hot iron. "My children have lost their father. My life this past year has been a living hell."
"Sally," Max began, his voice steady. "I'm not sure how to say this, but, on our trip out here, your husband told me what was going on."
She looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"
"He told me he was having an affair. I hate to be so blunt. I'm sorry."
She laughed. "There was no affair."
"He said things weren't good between the two of you, but that it didn't matter anymore."
"That's not much to hang an accusation on," she scowled. "Look, Stan's father died that year. Stan was having a horrible time of it. They'd been estranged. Stan was hounded by guilt. Of course, things were difficult between us--but that doesn't mean Stan was off having flings. It would have been the furthest thing from his mind."
"I know how this must hurt," Max said. "I can't believe he treated you like that. You deserve better."
"I'm flattered," she said. The look she shot Max was cold.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."
It was then that Max saw the moose. It was wading along the southern shore. A magnificent creature, with a light brown body, elongated head, beautiful antlers. Moose were the largest mammals in the Boundary Waters. Adults stood six feet tall at the shoulder and weighed up to a thousand pounds.
"Look at those antlers," Max crooned. "Did you know that male moose have the largest antlers of any creature in the world?"
She turned her back and began paddling once again. "Let's get out of here," she said.
They were halfway across the level portage to No Man Lake, when Max gave a start. He laid the canoe down.
"Is something wrong?" Sally asked.
Max was looking off to the right. At something. Sally couldn't see exactly what.
"No," he said. "Nothing's wrong."
"You look apprehensive," she said. "What are you staring at?"
"It's a small lake," he said. "Nothing special. I was there once, that's all." He was fidgeting nervously with the backpack straps, and she noted that he had begun to perspire.
A chill swept over her then as she realized what must have happened. The clues were all around her. How could she have been so blind? "You were there once," she said. "With my husband?"
"No," Max lied. "It was another time. Don't remember exactly when. But I think it was--after."
"It seems to trouble you." She eyed him closely, noticed that his face was flushed. "I'd like to see it. If you don't mind."
He shrugged. He wiped the sweat from his brow and took a drink from his water bottle.
The foliage had grown up thickly over the past year. Max pulled the ax from the backpack and began chopping away.
"I like mysterious, out-of-the-way places, don't you?" she said.
Max didn't like the sound of her voice. It had a harsh edge. Or was that just his imagination?
Thirty minutes later they reached No Name Lake. The canopy opened abruptly on their approach, and the clearing shimmered beneath a glaring sun. Max's heart was pounding. His eyes were fixated at a spot on the opposite side of the lake. He could not bring himself to look at the water below.
"It's an odd place," Sally said. "Not like the lakes we've visited. And it smells strange. A musty, decaying odor. Wouldn't you agree?"
Max turned to look at her. His teeth were clenched.
He put down the ax and sniffed at the air. "I don't smell anything odd," he said.
He crouched down at the edge of the granite slope that led down to the lake. He peered at brackish waters.
"The flies," he said in surprise. "They're gone."
"Flies?"
"Thousands of them. Big black monsters. Covered the surface. I'd never seen anything like it."
"I thought you said there was nothing special about this place?"
Max stood, hands at his sides, and turned slowly around. The dark hollows of Sally's eyes looked strange and terrible, and her hardened expression was not something he had ever hoped to see.
"What are you implying?" he said.
There was a flash of metal in the light of a blinding sun as Sally picked up the ax.
Max's thoughts dissolved in a maelstrom of panic. "Sally, please. I can explain--"
As his body tumbled into the water, the flies descended from a copse of pines on the other side of the lake. Thousands of them. And they were just as Max had described: large, black, and monstrous. Translucent, purple-veined wings glistened in the sun's scorching rays as they settled on his body. Like a living, breathing thing.