Summer of the Loon

Lola flees from society, isolating herself in the Minnesota backwoods with only loons for company...until one day, a mysterious man appears among the loons...

SUMMER OF THE LOON

 

 

They were like large grey pebbles, floating on the smooth turquoise water, their heads raised proudly up to the sun. Every now and then, one would plunge underwater and then come up minutes later on the other side of the lake. They were so small, and yet no observer could possibly call them vulnerable. The loons had complete power over the lake, and the water seemed to recoil as they passed, the small waves reverently submitting to their power.

Lola shifted slightly on the sill. The cottage key was still in her hand, leaving a permanent imprint on her palm. As soon as Mr. Lowe had left, Lola had dropped the pile of brochures and her two duffel bags and had perched herself on the windowsill. She had sat there, gazing at the lake, for three hours and had absolutely no intention of moving away anytime soon. There was a gorgeously monotonous nature to the loons that comforted Lola. They would always duck under and always come back to the surface. Constant, unchanging, gracious, and so unlike humans.

‘This is what I wanted,’ Lola suddenly realized. ‘I wanted so badly to get away from it all: college ornithology textbooks, the smoke, my parents, the first dates that never grew into second dates, society…’ She had lied to her parents and ran away from college a week before the end of her freshman year. Everything that college was supposed to be had shattered the day she had arrived. She thought that if she changed her name from dull “Lauren” to brilliant “Lola”, she could get a fresh start and be a social dove, fluttering from dorm to dorm, party to party. She thought that she could find real friends, people who would truly understand her, and true love. Instead, she became “the weird girl”, the “bird woman” and the “antisocial naïve freak.” By the end of the year, all Lola wanted to do was to flee. And so she did. Hastily stuffing all the necessities into two worn bags, leaving a quick message on her parents’ answering machine, and taking all of the emergency money from the jewelry box, Lola fled to this Minnesota cottage to do the two things that could bring her peace: watch birds and think.

Lola lazily altered her position so that she could have a full view of the world outside the window. The glass was perfectly transparent, as if it wasn’t there at all. The cottage was alone in the valley except for a second, smaller one to the right.

“Eh, don’t worry ‘bout that,” Mr. Lowe had drawled. “For the last ten years, the only things livin’ in that shack are them loons and mosquitoes.”

Besides the deserted shack, Lola was isolated from civilization. The old phone only worked one-way: Mr. Lowe could call Lola, but Lola couldn’t call Mr. Lowe (or anyone else for that matter). There were no stores, no electricity, no cars, and absolutely nothing to remind Lola of the past year of her life. She longed to forget. Forget it all. Lola closed her eyes, and the scent of fir and the music of the loons’ song encircled her. Nothing here was artificial. Nothing…

A strange whirling noise caused Lola to instinctively open her eyes. Something was wrong. The loons had floated silently to the perimeter of the lake, allowing an empty circle to form in the lake’s center. While the rest of the lake remained smooth, ripples started forming in the center circle. The ripples started revolving, becoming a cyclone, creating a bulge in the calm water. Lola did not dare to move. She was frozen, gazing motionlessly at the spiraling current.

And then, it was over. It might as well have been a mirage. The water was still as before, and the loons returned to the center of the lake. Amongst them was a brown sphere, almost inconspicuous in the grey circle of birds. The sphere glided slowly towards shore, and soon, Lola saw that it was a head. A human head.

To her own surprise, Lola was calm. There was no fear, only curiosity. She shifted closer to the window and observed the stranger. He was standing shoulder-deep in water. His skin was the color of the tree bark, dark, but more brown that black. The wind played with his hair, which was the color of his skin, causing it to fly free. He wore a peculiar blue scarf, tightly encircling his neck. As he lifted his eyes to meet Lola’s, she saw that they were unnaturally blue, the color of a cloudless sky. She knew that she should have diverted her gaze, but it was as if she was paralyzed. There was something about him that lured every cell of Lola. Her mind was blank, her sense had vanished. It was only later, on her first sleepless night that all the logical questions would torment her. Who was he? Why was he here? Where did he come from? Why was he wearing a scarf in the water? Why did he stare at her as if she was the only living being left on Earth?

All that would come later. Now, as he slowly left the water, his gaze never leaving Lola’s, her mind was only capable of screaming one thing: ‘Don’t let him disappear!” But what could she do? She wanted to say something, anything, even a simple “hello”. He would certainly have heard her through the glass. But she was numb. It was as if it was a crime to speak, to interrupt what was passing in between their eyes. And so she stared. And he stared back. He wore nothing but the scarf, but his nakedness appeared to be a natural part of him, and Lola only thought of it later, long after he had left. Gracefully, he exited the water, paused, took one last lingering look at Lola, and then vanished…into the deserted cottage next door.

He came back out to the lake every evening, at exactly 8pm, and left at midnight. Throughout the days, Lola would read, swim, birdwatch, and stroll through the forest. But every evening at eight, she would drop everything and watch him. At first, she observed from her perch on the windowsill. He would always look up at her right before he left, and she could never avert her gaze. Later, Lola started coming outside and watched him from the porch, leaning over the railing. By the end of the summer, she became even braver, leaving the cottage to study him from a high rock at the edge of the lake. As he came out of the water, he would pass within about two inches of her and she would scent him. He smelled of nature, of bark and pine, of water and bird feathers. And yet, they never spoke. And Lola never spoke of him to Mr. Lowe, who called once a week, or to her parents, who, no matter how much Lola reassured them that she was okay, insisted on calling every morning.

 Somehow, Lola felt subconsciously that, if she spoke to him, it would shatter the bond that had inevitably formed between them. Throughout the past year, Lola had taught herself not to be positive about anything in life. Yet, as the sunsets passed, she became more and more positive of one thing: she knew with the depth of her soul that he, whoever he was, just like her, lived for those four hours every night when they would meet by the lake. Those four hours became the purpose of their existence.

The months flew faster than the loons. May, June, July, August…He never missed a day and she never forgot to come out. The loons welcomed him whenever he swam. He danced with the loons. It started raining more in August. Hunting season began, and occasionally, Lola would see the remains of gun smoke in the air above the trees. On the first August morning, the loons screeched in despair, as if omening what was about to come. As if they could see the end.

 

    *          *           *    

 

            Ten days before the end, he smiled. As he started coming out of the water, a loon followed him. He ducked underwater with the loon and stayed under for a bit longer than usual. Lola shifted to the edge of the rock, looking for him, panic rising in her chest. After about a minute, he resurfaced along with the loon, perfectly content and calm. Lola, sighing with relief, relaxed and immediately skidded off the edge of the rock. Flustered, she quickly climbed back up to her perch. Halfway up, she paused, catching his gaze. He was staring at her as always, but his lips curved up. He was smiling at her! Then, as quickly as the smile appeared, it vanished and his face became expressionless as before, save for the amused spark in his eyes.

            Five days before the end, she touched his scarf. As he walked by the point closest to the rock where Lola sat, he tripped over a twig. While he caught his balance, the wind blew his scarf towards Lola and she instinctively reached out to touch it. He froze as she caressed the silk material in her palms. Then, slowly, she briefly touched it to her cheek and let go, returning it to its owner. His face was gravely serious that day as he ran back to the shack.

            The night before the end, they spoke. Instead of going straight home after his swim, he suddenly sat down on a rock directly across from Lola. She didn’t remember how much time passed. All she knew was that he was close, so, so close, closer than he had ever been before. He gazed at her and she gazed at him. It was getting dark and his blue eyes were like fireflies, glimmering in the night. For the first time that summer, the silence wasn’t comforting. There was a tension, a new type of tension, and Lola didn’t know how to break it. Suddenly, she spoke.

            It was an almost inaudible mumble. “Hello.” She didn’t recognize her voice. He smiled. For the second time, he smiled.

            “I’m Lola,” she said, her voice mirroring the leaves, trembling in the evening wind.

            “Lola,” he echoed. His voice was soft, confident, and musical. The two syllables of her name sounded like two perfectly pitched notes. ‘Fa, so,’ Lola thought, recalling her high school music class.

            “I…” she paused. What could she say to him? How could she explain that he had become a part of her reality? That she lived for every moment that their eyes met? That she felt for him what she hadn’t felt for any living being before?

            He looked at her, and she knew that he understood. He understood everything, even the things that she didn’t understand herself. “I know,” he said.

            “What is your name?” She heard her voice again. It was the easiest of the many questions that she longed to ask.

            “Shh…” he whispered. He slowly lifted a finger and lightly pressed it to her lips. Lola trembled. She had pictured him touching her so many times, but she never expected it to feel like this. It was as if, by pressing his skin to hers, he was resuscitating all the parts of her that had shattered to death during the past year.

            He took the end of his scarf and pressed the soft fabric to her cheek. Then, he leaned over and touched his lips to the other side of the fabric. He paused there, closing his eyes and breathing all of her in. After what could have been a moment or eternity, he stepped back.

            “Thank you,” he said. Then, with a last lingering glance at Lola (his eyes were full with despair, nostalgia, and, yes, love!) he disappeared into the house.

            She wanted to call after him, to bring him back, but her voice was numb. As she walked back to her cottage, Lola could only come up with one semi-logical question: ‘Why didn’t I ask him about the scarf?’

          *          *          *

 

            That night, there were gunshots in the air. Lola couldn’t sleep. She winced at every ricochet outside. Each gunshot seemed to be killing off a part of her.

            The next morning, Mr. Lowe called. Lola feigned indifference as she complained about the noise. Inside, she was shaking.

            “Oh, er, sorry ‘bout that.” Mr. Lowe sounded bored. “Just some hunters. They paid me big bucks, ya know.”

            “Do you know what they shot?” Lola immediately regretted asking.

            “Yeah, sure I know. Them chaps came into my cabin this morning, bragging. Shot three ducks and a loon. I had a laugh at that. They were obviously amateurs. Even the dullest chap knows that a loon ain’t good for meat or nothin’. Eh, not that I’m complainin’. Maybe we’ll get a bit more quiet around here, what do ya say?”

            The telephone handset clattered to the floor and split in two. Lola ran, trying with all her remaining strength not to think. Her legs brought her to the lake, which was ghastly empty. The loons were in mourning.

            She saw the grey lump right away. It lay on the shore, and the lake water mercilessly lapped over it.

            A second before the end, Lola identified the loon. The corpse had a blue ribbon entwined tightly around its neck.

            The end.