“They guide ships through dark waters,” Mem said, her eyes squinting as if she led a ship herself.
“I won’t be on a ship in any waters,” I said, petting Kippers.
Pep tapped the steering wheel. “Now Kyna, if you’re swimming . . .”
“Swimming!” I sat forward. “I’m never going swimming.”
“Just listen, love.” He smiled into the rearview mirror at me. “If a swimmer, any swimmer, were to have a bit of trouble in a silkie lake, the silkies would rescue them. You can’t drown in a silkie lake.”
“Pft!” I crossed my arms. “What’s a silkie doing in an American lake anyway?”
“They’re immigrants, like us,” Mem said.
Pep lowered his voice into adventure-story mode, then said, “In a summer so warm folks thought the North Pole might melt, a pod of silkies set to sea. Young adventuresome silkies they were. Wild ones who grew up on stories of the seal folk who guided Leif Erikson on his journey over the great ocean. They swam clear to Canada, right into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Slipping into the St. Lawrence River, most of the pod made their way to the Great Lakes for a bit of a holiday.
“But as the story goes, a young silkie lad named Terin got himself turned around. The water had lost its salt and gone murky green long about twilight. His lungs hurt with that weak, salt-free water. And the sounds didn’t travel right, bouncing off rocks and the riverbed. With the water all shallow and filled with tiny rushing currents, he got tangled up in a batch of weeds, misheard the calls from the front of the pod, and went the wrong way down the Richelieu River. Finding him missing, a few of his kinfolk went hunting, winding their way down rivers and streams.
“Meanwhile, Terin came out in Lake Champlain, a grand, beautiful, clear lake filled with islands to the north and reflecting great gray mountains topped with pine trees to the southwest. But aye, what he loved the best were the rolling green hills to the east. What with the rocky shore and the green hills and the mist of the morning, Terin felt himself at home. And when his aunties and uncles found him there, swimming along the shores, they too had to agree with him. And there they stayed.
“That’s how the silkies came to Lake Champlain.”
“Oh yeah? When did the leprechauns show up?” I asked.
“And how would they do that?” Pep asked. “Have you ever seen a rainbow big enough to cross the Atlantic?” He glanced back at me. “Well, have you?”
“No.” I rolled my eyes.
“Well, then, there you have it. They can’t get here, now can they?”
“Why not just buy a plane ticket over?”
Mem laughed, “I can see them all standing on each other’s shoulders to hand off a wee passport to the customs officer.” She squeaked up her voice, “‘We’re traveling for pleasure, sir. Off to see the rainbows cast by Niagara Falls, sir. See what they’ve got at the end of them.’”
Mem acted out what she described. “And the big one on the bottom’s all red faced and shaking. A minute later, they all tumble to the ground in a screaming pile of buckles and hats, poking out feet and elbows everywhere like some muddled-up hedgehog.”
We all laughed.
“And can you imagine trying to buckle a leprechaun into an airplane seat? One good bout of turbulence and he’d go sailing.” She zoomed her hand through the air. “Probably end up in some lady’s handbag.”
All the crazy stories and I almost forgot where we were headed. Then Pep pulled down a long tree-lined road. I could see the tall gray mountains in the distance to the south—craggy like the wrinkled faces of old men with pine tree beards and pointy hats. I feared these were the mountains to the south of Lake Champlain.
“Are we getting close?” I asked, sinking down in my seat.
“Why?” Pep asked. “Are you excited to jump out and see if you can catch sight of a silkie?”
“No. Just planning an escape route.”
Mem frowned at me. “And what if this is meant to be your best summer ever? You’re ruining any chance of that with your sour thoughts.”
Best? Try worst. I’d never sleep. They’d expect me to eat slimy fish. And those mop dogs would probably drool, chew, and piddle their way through my attic bedroom back home. I’d be lucky if I’d even survive my eleventh summer of life. I’d certainly never forget it!
HOUSE
We came to a gravelly halt in front of a big old house with a stone foundation, wide gray shutters that looked like splintered wood, and large boxy windows in the roof that looked out over the trees like bulging eyes.
Staring at the attic window eyes that faced the lake as I got out of the car, I said, “My bedroom doesn’t face the water does it?” I loved my attic bedroom at home, far away from the downstairs bathroom, but I didn’t want to be anywhere near a good view of that lake.
“Not at all.” Pep said, lugging a suitcase out of the trunk. “Your bedroom’s the back one, right there.” He pointed to a bay window above the back door.
“Come on, Kippers.” I put the cat down, keeping his leash in my hand, and walked him inside. Kippers liked to think of himself as a dog, so he traveled on a leash and played fetch with superballs.
His leash hook jingled and echoed through the nearly empty rooms. I could even hear his claws clickety clacking on the hardwood floors. I didn’t like the silence of the place. It made me feel like an invader.
My bedroom had two bay windows. One faced west to look over a small stone courtyard between the driveway and an old stone shed. The other window faced north to a ring of shrubby trees not even big enough to hold a birdhouse, let alone a tree fort like mine. At least I couldn’t see the lake. But the echoey bigness of the room made me kind of thin inside.
Even the closet was big enough for a bed. Big old houses with wood floors and echoey rooms had long histories. And histories hid ghosts. I didn’t like it one bit. I had half a mind to dig out our tent and sleep outside in the woods to the east. I had my Camping Badge. Why not put it good use? I even started searching the boxes for my tent until I realized camping outside would probably mean I could hear the waves lapping at the shore, threatening to flood. Scratch that plan.
Instead, I left Kippers to roam the house and Mem and Pep to unpack. I headed for the road we came in on, thinking I might find a mountain path I could map out for our Get With the Land project. Besides, heading for high ground sounded like a nice, dry way to spend the summer.
FIRE
Fire is the enemy of water. Flames can turn drowning waves into steam. I love fire. The quick flash and turn of the flames, the warming heat, and the way it burns the outer edge of marshmallows to a crunchy crust while warming the middles to a creamy mush, just perfect for s’mores. I love fire.
The fireplace in what Mem and Pep called “our lake home” had to be big enough to roast an elephant. So sitting there in front of the rumbling flames on our first night there, I felt safe. I loved the warmth on my tuckered-out toesies, the way the flames made the pine needles stuck in my clothes smell up the room like a tree at Christmas, and the light patterns that flickered over the walls. Even Mem opening the lakeside windows to let out the heat and let in the cool night air didn’t touch my cozy mood. And the sweet goo of s’mores made me feel even better.
Then Mem wrapped me up in a bed of knitted blankets by the fire. I nestled down to sleep with the taste of chocolaty marshmallows on my lips, which helped me keep my mind on the sooty logs crumbling, the ashes hissing. But the water started