all rigged. They’d had it rigged for months. I tried to tell them I had to stay home if I ever hoped to take a picture that would earn me a blue ribbon at the Cortland County Fair.
But they had a defense for that one. “They have a Clinton County Fair in Plattsburgh, New York, not twenty minutes from our lake house,” Pep told me.
Mem sweetened the pot with, “We’ll even take you to New York City for some great shots in Central Park, if you’re up for it.”
But I didn’t really even hear her because I couldn’t get over Pep calling it “our lake house,” like we owned it and it wasn’t just a place we rented for the summer.
To make things even worse, they rented our cute little house in Perryville to a family with two hairy, smashed-faced dogs that grunted when they ran. I couldn’t stay behind unless I wanted to defend Kippers against grunting dust mops all summer.
Then Hillary told me her parents wanted her to go stay with her grandmother for a month while they taught a class in Mexico. Grandma Homzie lived in a one-bedroom apartment. Hillary slept on the couch. There’d be no room for me.
And no matter how hard I searched, I couldn’t find a summer camp that didn’t include swimming. Even the Ven Valley Horse Camp had swimming lessons—with your horse!
I had to go live on a lake. A huge, enormous, pool of drowning water.
As we drove to the stupid lake, I tried to draw a map of the one trail Hillary and I had cleared and marked with the posts we’d made ourselves, but Mem and Pep kept telling me silly silkie tales.
They dropped folktales into a conversation like other parents told when-I-was-your-age stories. But Mem and Pep’s were no Cinderella-type tales. And even though I’d heard them enough to recite them backward, I still listened because I always hoped Mem and Pep might let something about themselves slip. Other kids heard about the time their parents got caught taking a neighbor’s bike for a spin or trying to sneak into an R-rated movie, but the only things I knew about my parents were that Pep tricked Mem into dating him with soggy Chieftains tickets and that they decided to honeymoon in the U.S. because they’d heard about the fabulous beaches, ferries, and islands off the coast of Maine. That vacation had become a permanent move to the U.S. when they adopted me.
But if they missed home, they never showed it by telling me tales of their childhood. No, I had to hear about a goofy mythical creature who could’ve used a map. Silkie lore. No stories about those lifeguardy creatures would make me feel safer about being near that lake.
“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
