The July full moon, a giant silver coin in the inky sky, mocked Evelyn Nesbit’s stealth mission. Her Bellows launch, laden with hulking metal shapes and crackling with rogue electricity, resembled some monstrous beetle traversing the glassy expanse of Chateaugay Lake. Each creak and every groan of the overloaded craft echoed across the water, a discordant serenade announcing their arrival to every critter, angler, and constable within a ten-mile radius!
Nestled atop the misshapen metallic forms were three of the Electric Wendigos, their bulbous red eyes glowing malevolently in the moonlight. Evelyn, perched precariously at the stern, wrestled with a malfunctioning outboard motor that sputtered and coughed like a consumptive jazz trumpet clogged with spittle. It was simply just all part of the glorious, chaotic mess she’d come to expect when dealing with her magnificent creations.
Across the lake, the destination: the infamous Owlyout Speakeasy in Merrill! Tonight was the night of the epic hootenanny like no other, a night Evelyn intended to use as a coming-out party for her Bewildering Electric Wendigos.
The speakeasy, a den of bootleggers with pockets lined with illicit cash, big city and wannabe flappers with lips painted rouge, and local Shuttstown hillbillies totally loaded up with Brazen Serpent Wendigo Whisky flowing through their gizzards, who all flocked from far and wide, would erupt in a cacophony of cheers and gunfire once they witnessed the spectacle about to unfold: a battle of the bands!
Among the throng stood Sheriff Mel Nemier, a man whose stature matched his booming voice, observing Evelyn’s progress with a bemused smile. In his calloused hands, Mel cradled a well-worn violin, its wood polished to a deep amber. Mel wasn’t your average lawman. He was a man of surprising talents, a virtuoso fiddler whose blazing skills and depth of soul were legendary throughout the north country. He was also a dab hand with electronics, having gleaned his knowledge from tinkering with discarded radio parts during the war. But tonight, he planned to utilize all of these skills to put a stop to Evelyn’s latest escapade!
His faithful companion, Old Jack, a retired Black Horse Troop B steed, snorted impatiently, pawing at the ground. Unlike the groaning launch, slowly but loudly lurching its way across the lake, Jack’s presence was silent, a dark silhouette against the moonlit landscape. Unbeknownst to the crowd, Old Jack served a far more crucial purpose this night. Strapped to his back was a contraption of Mel’s own design – an array of salvaged loudspeakers, wirelessly connected and powered by Mel’s ingenuity. He’d spent days tinkering, using his knowledge of capacitors and transduction to amplify his fiddle’s sound to a level that rivaled a brass band. After all, a good ol’ fiddle, played with Mel’s unmatched mastery could surely counter the cacophony of Evelyn’s electric nightmares.
The Owlyout Speakeasy, a ramshackle building reeking of spilled liquor and good times, pulsed with anticipation. Just as Evelyn’s boat lurched to a halt in front of the rickety dock of the Owlyout, Mel drew his bow across the strings of his violin. The first notes, resonating with surprising power, carried across the lake, a hauntingly beautiful melody that seemed to weave its way through the very fabric of the night. It was a melody born of the wind whistling through pines, of the lapping water against the shore, of the stories whispered by the ancient mountains – the very essence of Chateaugay Lake.
Mel’s music was a revelation. It spoke of the weird, lonely cries of the loons and the defiance of the human spirit in the face of hardship. Each note was a testament to the heart of the north country, a stark contrast to the dissonant screech emanating from the Wendigos as Evelyn prodded them to life. As Evelyn unveiled her creations – the Eerie Electric Wendigos, twitching their metallic limbs and emitting an unsettling hum – a gasp rippled through the gathering crowd outside.
The air crackled with chaotic energy as the Wendigos unleashed a torrent of noise that carried across the lake. But Mel, his eyes closed, his fingers dancing across the strings, wove a melody that seemed to burrow deep into the metallic hearts of the robots. One by one, their erratic movements faltered. The cacophony subsided, replaced by a series of confused bleeps and bloops.
The effect was instantaneous. The speakeasy door finally burst open, disgorging a motley crew of local onlookers gathered outside, who gaped at the sight of Evelyn’s incoming boat and its bizarre cargo. Inside the bar, the music died down, replaced by a stunned silence. Even the malfunctioning outboard motor sputtered to a reluctant halt, as if mesmerized by the melody.
Evelyn, momentarily forgetting her anger at Mel’s interference, felt a shiver run down her spine. The man’s music… it was good. Damned good! But…she wouldn’t let a fiddle compete with her Incredible Electric Wendigo robots! With a growl, she slammed a fist against the side of a Wendigo, jolting it back to life.
The Wendigo lurched forward, a cacophony of dissonant chords erupting from its makeshift speakers. It was a sonic assault, a chaotic barrage of noise designed to overwhelm and terrify. The crowd roared in a mixture of excitement and fear. A brawl erupted in one corner of the bar, a shot rang out, shattering a bottle.
Mel, unfazed, countered with a flurry of notes on his violin. His melody shifted, becoming a call to arms, a defiant roar that echoed through the valley. He closed his eyes, letting the music flow.
The battle of the bands had begun! The Wendigo’s screech rose to a fever pitch, a metallic scream that grated on the ears.
Mel responded with a mournful lament, a lament that spoke of the beauty of the north country, of the quiet North Country life threatened by the wild chaos Evelyn unleashed. The crowd, initially mesmerized by the spectacle, began to sway, their initial excitement turning to unease. The brawl fizzled out, replaced by a tense silence as everyone watched the figures locked in their musical contest.
Mel’s music swelled, his fingers dancing across the strings with astonishing speed and precision. He channeled the power of the capacitors and transducers strapped to the strings, a culmination of his skills and the electronic enhancements he’d devised. The moonlit landscape vibrated with the energy of his music, each note a testament to his dedication and ingenuity.
In the midst of the showdown, Old Jack, sensing the crescendo, decided it was time to make his presence known. With a commanding snort, the horse took a step forward, his hooves clicking against the rocky ground like a drummer setting the beat. To the astonished onlookers, he seemed larger than life, a shadowy figure bathed in moonlight, his eyes glinting with an uncanny intelligence.
Jack’s voice, deep and resonant, cut through the night. “Ladies and gentlemen, hillbillies and bootleggers, lend me your ears!” he began, his tone both authoritative and oddly soothing. “You witness tonight a clash of titans, a duel of destiny! On one side, the maestro of the mountains, Sheriff Mel Nemier! And on the other, the mistress of mechanical mayhem, Evelyn Nesbit!”
The crowd, already on edge, turned their attention to the talking horse, their jaws collectively dropping. Some stumbled, blinking rapidly, wondering if the Brazen Serpent Wendigo Whisky had finally driven them mad.
Then, a spotlight illuminated the makeshift stage. There stood Mel, his weathered face creased in a confident grin. He shouldered his trusty fiddle, a worn instrument that held the stories of countless hootenannies past. As the first notes, imbued with the raw beauty of Chateaugay Lake itself, soared through the air, a hush fell over the crowd.
As the air shimmered around Old Jack he continued, adopting a rhythmic cadence that matched the beat of Mel’s music. With a theatrical flourish, a microphone materialized in mid-air, held aloft by a spectral bridle fashioned from barbed wire. The horse, assuming a dramatic stance with his forelegs planted firmly on the dusty floor and his voice amplified by the microphone, addressed the bewildered crowd.
“Citizens of this clandestine hootenanny!” Old Jack boomed— “In the heart of Chateaugay Lake, where the whispers of the wind and water converge, we find ourselves at the crossroads of creation and chaos. Hear the fiddle’s call, a symphony of serenity, a melody that speaks of home and harmony. Yet, behold the Electric Wendigos, harbingers of havoc, their dissonance a dirge of discord!”
As Jack spoke, Mel’s music grew more intricate, weaving in the horse’s words, each note amplifying the narrative. The crowd, captivated, swayed to the rhythm, their initial drunken stupor giving way to an almost trance-like state. They felt the story unfold through the interplay of sound and speech, an experience that transcended the chaotic brawl that had erupted moments before.
Evelyn, undeterred, pushed her Wendigos to their limits. The robots screeched and thrashed, their cacophony clashing with Mel’s harmonies. Yet, the more they struggled, the more their noise seemed to fall apart, unable to withstand the purity and precision of the violin’s notes.
Jack, now fully in his element, shifted into a Dadaistic stream-of-consciousness monologue, his words flowing like jazz scat. “In the prohibition nights, where shadows dance and secrets prance, we decode the rhythm of rebellion. Flapper flaps and fiddler flings, an esoteric jam, an iambic slam. The north country sings, in symbols and strings, a tale spun in the moon’s silver gleam.”
The crowd, stunned into silence by the talking horse, watched with wide eyes and slack jaws. Old Jack reveled in their attention. He launched into a coded monologue, his words an esoteric blend of Dadaist poetry and Troop B lingo.
“Speakeasy secrets, hidden in the F sharp minor of a bootlegger’s blues! The Charleston kicks in counterpoint to the clinking of rye flasks!” His voice shifted, mimicking the rhythmic clack of a typewriter. “Tobaccy Trail Taterheads tap their toes to the syncopated shuffle of a raided still!”
The meaning of Old Jack’s words was lost on most, yet the rhythm and cadence of his delivery added another layer to the surreal spectacle. He was a one-horse hype man, a bizarre MC conducting the chaos.
Meanwhile, Mel, inspired by Old Jack’s improvisatory theatrics, followed suit by unleashing a flurry of notes on his violin. His music rose to a crescendo, a defiant melody that pulsed with the raw energy of Chateaugay Lake itself. It was a sound that resonated with the very soul of the north country, a sound that spoke of resilience and tradition.
The combined forces of Mel’s haunting melodies and Old Jack’s bizarre pronouncements proved too much for the Electric Wendigos! Their metallic screeches grew erratic, their movements sluggish. The crowd, swaying to the hypnotic beat, sensed the shift in power. They roared their approval as Mel’s music reached its climax, a final note that hung in the air like the echo of a distant gunshot.
Silence followed. Then, the first tentative clap, then another, until the entire speakeasy erupted in a thunderous applause. The Electric Wendigos, their internal circuits overloaded, slumped to the floor with a series of metallic groans.
Mel, his face flushed with exertion, lowered his violin. Old Jack, his microphone still hovering in mid-air, let out a satisfied whinny. “Bravo, Sheriff! You’ve shown these chrome contraptions what real music is all about!” Cheers that echoed across the lake hailed Mel, the champion of Chateaugay Lake, the man who had tamed chaos with the pure magic of a fiddle.
Evelyn, amidst the cheering throng, couldn’t help but grudgingly admit defeat. Mel, with his nimble fingers and his unwavering faith in the classics, had proven that sometimes, the simplest solutions were the most powerful. The night ended in a joyous cacophony of a different kind – the joyous din of laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses, as the north country celebrated a victory for tradition, ingenuity, and of course, some damn good fiddle playing!
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?