Amber Lake

In the western third of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, if you follow the state highway M28 after it diverges from US Highway 2 in Wakefield you’ll pass by areas that once were growing lumber centers such as Tula, which now boasts a population of one. Berglund still ekes out a meager existence along the north shore of Lake Gogebic but that’s due mostly to the fishing seasons, tourism, and winter sportsmen.



Beyond Berglund you’ll pass nonexistent towns like Topaz and Matchwood. Topaz was once a producer of poultry, dairy and cattle. Now nothing of the town remains to proclaim it deserved a stop on the Duluth South Shore &Atlantic rail line. Matchwood thrived in the late eighteen hundreds and early nineteen hundreds. The Diamond Match Company once located their headquarters in Matchwood to oversee all of their logging camps. The General Store and Post Office building no longer stands alone, forlorn beside Michigan Highway 28. It was once converted into a used auto dealership and then later to a residential dwelling which has since fallen into ruin and no smoke issues from its stone chimney anymore. The property has been deserted. Only a rusting hulk of an unsold used car a skeletal reminder of the former all but forgotten prosperous times.


It is hard to imagine in this day and age that wilderness areas could still exist in a place like Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Such tracts of land are accepted in the Rocky Mountains and the bayous of the Gulf of Mexico. Yet as you take a leisurely drive eastward through Michigan, just off of any road lie inaccessible areas that may have never seen the footprints of man, have never been trespass to his curiosity.


Eventually travelling east on M28 you’ll pass a sleepy little town of Ewen. Once a burgeoning center of the logging industry with a number of its own lumber producing mills all accessible by the Ontonagon River, it is now a pale imitation of its past. Progress and environmentalists have all but shut this little settlement down. Indeed the schools of more than six outlying communities have had to consolidate to maintain enough attendance to garner state funding. Its roots and history lie in the logging industries of Michigan’s past. A modest, almost embarrassing homage to its heritage stands just south of M28 as you enter the town limits. A small museum dedicated to the logging industry can be seen from the highway. A replica of the World’s Fair Load of Logs towered proudly next to the museum but time and harsh elements ravaged the life size copy and it had to come down due to safety concerns.


Beyond this terminal little town in the Ontonagon River valley, driving towards its nearest neighbor and bitter rival, Bruce’s Crossing you’ll pass the intersection of the North Cemetery Road and Choate Rode. Beyond these, after cresting a small hill, you will come to the Hall road which heads south from the highway. A proud and jubilant music and dance hall once stood on the corner of this road and M28. It too is now gone and few are those that remember it. Grand and wild times, if the stories of the elderly can be believed, were had in this hall that would rival anything you might see in the cinema portraying the “Wild West.”


If you head south on the Hall road for about four miles it will eventually meet the German Country Road at a ninety-degree angle. After joining the German Country Road, jogging east for about a mile and a quarter you find another road that heads south once more. After miles of picturesque wooded lanes and vistas of expansive, if offtimes neglected farms, this road is a homely contrast, almost a stark eyesore, to the scenery left just behind.


From the condition of the gravel and dirt grade one can tell this road sees a lot of heavy machinery traffic and indeed at its terminus is a quarry complete with an industrial gravel making machine. Even when quiet this towering construct is quite intimidating, an instrumental eye sore against the backdrop of nature. This is the site where the Ontonagon County Road Commission gets its gravel for the southern half of the county. The Michigan Department of Transportation even uses this facility now and then for its own state wide public work projects.


Yet continuing past this repulsive industrial affront to nature along a spur that passes by the road works there is a trail that isn’t much more than a path. This leads to one of the hundreds of hidden wonders that bejewel the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, a lonely and placid sequestered lake. First discovered by French fur trappers that crossed and crisscrossed the virginal wilderness plying their trade, they named the small pond after its brownish-yellow waters, lac de l’ambre; Amber Lake, yet due to where it lies on some maps it is also called Lake 19 due to its location in official Platte books. The Platte book for the north western portion of the Upper Peninsula however does not show its location. It is conspicuously missing from the geological features.


Picturesque and tranquil in appearance, however, its waters were deep and mysterious, dark, unfathomable. This small body of water held a mystery all its own.


The Chippewa and Ojibway Indians avoided it if not out of fear or spite, then out of practicality. Apparently there were and are now no fish within its depths. No fish to attract waterfowl or other animals this lake proved useless to the indigenous natives. Even the transplanted schools they attempted did not serve to fill the waters with aquatic wildlife. This wasn’t for lack of know-how that the attempts failed. Indigenous natives of any area have inherent knowledge of such animal husbandry passed down through generation after generation. Either some unknown underwater predator immediately ate the fish, conditions did not allow for the fish to survive, or they found a way to escape the confines of the lake.


The latter theory would be next to impossible to achieve as Amber Lake is not fed or empties out by any stream, river, creek or rivulet. It is a completely land-locked body of water. This does not have any bearing, however, to the level of water within the lake. This pond does not rely on the rain to maintain its volume. Unknown factors keep the shoreline relatively constant.


Early settlers saw the riddles about this little body of water and eventually resident superstition won out over study and observation. The accepted explanation for this phenomenon is that Amber Lake is somehow connected through an under ground cavern or tunnel to Steusser Lake, a lake just about a mile to the south west. In the mid nineteen sixties the Army Corp of Engineers tried to plumb to the bottom of Amber Lake but were unsuccessful. Their core sampling equipment just didn’t have the length required to reach the bottom of the lake. All the mire and decaying vegetation that lies just beneath the water’s surface lined the bottom deeper than their probes could penetrate.


The history of the lake has been far from idyllic. It cost the life of one young Michigan lad while his helpless brother watched in agony from the shore. Boating across its placid surface something overturned their little fishing craft and only one of the two boys was able to make it to shore alive. Only one survived to carry for life the scars of such an ordeal.


Yet Hidden from most historic annals of the area is a recounting of an event that transpired during the depression era. It was reported twice in the periodicals of the time, once in the Ontonagon Herald and again as a human-interest piece on the crazy antics of some homeless man in The Houghton Mining Gazette. Doctors’ and law enforcement officials’ reports, although sketchy at best for the times, still provide the background that helps fill in the entire tapestry that was the incident.


It was the summer of 19__. Samuel O’Brien had tried his hand at banking in northern Florida when the “crash” hit. Unemployed yet still ambitious and self motivated he moved north to New York City. He held several jobs there; most of them menial, manual labor positions but when the lay offs started happening unfortunately it was the most recent hires that had to be let go.


Moving westward he tried his hand at freight handling on railroads moving through Pittsburgh and Detroit. Hopping a ship he tried being a handler on Lake Freighters. He did a stint as a butcher in the Chicago stockyards. Finally he ended up being a handy man in one of the lumber camps of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.


Samuel O’Brien came from sturdy, rugged Irish-Scottish stock. His grandfather fought in the Civil War and his father in World War One as a British infantryman. Samuel had wanted to be a famous adventurer when he was a youngster. As a boy growing up in West Virginia he voraciously read anything about the wild outdoors he could get his hands on. But he physically he was not the bookish, bookworm type. He put himself through university by working in the soapstone quarry in his hometown. He was no stranger to hardship or sacrifice.


When summer came that 19__ he decided he wanted some time off from work and had heard about Amber Lake. He decided to set up camp on its northern shore and stay there until he had the mystery solved. Remains of his industrious endeavor can still be seen today on the shore of the little lake. He cleared a few trees out and made himself a snug and secure little cell with the timbers he had felled and by excavating into the earth. He put in a small garden of vegetables and legumes. He canned what he could and dried what he couldn’t. He wanted to be sure his larder was well stocked in the event he remained in the area through winter.


He was able to put up stores of dried fish and smoked meats from his catches in such streams as Pine Creek, Steusser Lake, the Ontonagon River and even as far away as Lake Gogebic. Lake Gogebic was a good twenty-mile walk from the site of his camp.


With activities such as these, his summer passed quickly. That year the summer was extremely mild and saw none of the violent thunderstorms that can rage through the country whenever passing weather fronts are just right. As far north as the Upper Peninsula is, when weather conditions allow it even sees an odd tornado or two. That year, however, the weather remained mild and indeed his garden was able to yield a third harvest before frost set into the ground that autumn.


Any grumbling about him “squatting” on any lumber company land seems to have either never existed, or evidence of it has been lost to time. A county surveyor official did investigate his camp. O’Brien was off on one of his many errands and the official found nothing dangerous or neglectful about the camp. He marked in his record the simple statement: “The O’Brien Camp is as sound and safe as could pass any county regulation. Worthington could learn something from this man.” It should be noted that Worthington ran one of the larger lumber camps in the area but discretion suggests the company remain unnamed.


Autumn also passed peacefully with the leaves burnishing their surroundings with flaming shades of crimson and gold. Warm days and temperate nights allowed Samuel to extend his fishing and hunting seasons even further. This coupled with an occasional illicit visit to some lumber camp’s storehouse and he was more than prepared to face even the harshest of winters. He had a larder full of canned goods, enough flour to bake with, corn feed for the half dozen chickens he liberated, a couple large hams and a whole slab of bacon. By the time the first snows came down in October he was set to live the life of luxury and devote his time to unraveling Amber Lake’s secret.


As is often the case the first few flurries in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula disappear before the ground has a chance to freeze and that year was no exception. It had snowed and thawed twice before the night of Halloween yet that night was shaping up to drop a lot of snow.


Samuel was quite comfortable in his one room dugout shack. The logs that made his walls and roof had been chinked adequately with clay and furs covered their surfaces, insulating against the cold, reflecting the heat from his little iron stove. The wind roared all night but Samuel had no trouble sleeping through the storm. If he could sleep in the engine of a moving train or on a steaming freighter on one of the Great Lakes, the buffeting wind was like a lullaby to him.


The morning found the world a much different place. A thick blanket of snow covered everything and Samuel had to shovel a pathway to his wood supply and his outhouse. The wind of the night storm had divested the trees of the few remaining leaves and the driven snow frosted the north sides of their trunks. Drifts formed in gullies and ravines and Samuel knew it would be safest for him to stick to established trails he was already familiar with if he wanted to do any walking.


The distant noise of work in the nearby quarry was absent and the whole world seemed to him as if the quiet blanket of white that covered everything muted it


None of this really concerned Samuel, though as he had no plans for travel. Instead his focus was on Amber Lake. The snowfall had done nothing to its surface. It was either too warm a lake, or the wind tossed waves were too violent to allow any snow to accumulate on the surface. Midday found O’Brien decked out in the winter clothes he had crafted for himself from pelts and tanned hides. He took his daily stroll about the lake’s circumference. He checked the numerous rods he had staked out at intervals around the body of water. He had marked the rods with different color bands to measure the depth of the water at the shoreline. Using these stakes and other landmarks he made line of sight estimations about the level of the water, its circumference, and general action of the water. Keeping copious notes he observed that his measurements changed hardly at all from one day to the next.


Day after day, regardless of the weather, he made his rounds. Each day he found his data almost identical to the previous day’s recordings. As the first day of winter approached he began to wonder if his efforts were worth his time. Yet he was on his own and doing something he enjoyed. Since the roads to any town were now under four feet of snow at least, he decided to just stay put. For once he found new resolve to see this little enterprise through to the end. He would stay a year at this lake to see for himself if indeed there was an actual mystery to be solved.


When he was not out walking, Samuel stayed within his little hovel constantly working on his furs and skins, or he was working at his woodpile, sawing and splitting the logs to better fit into his little stove.


As small as his place was he didn’t need much fuel in his stove. Filling the hopper before turning in for the evening was usually good enough to ensure he wouldn’t freeze during the night plus there were usually a bed of glowing coals in the morning which he would use to rekindle a fresh blaze.


His breakfasts consisted of fresh eggs, bacon or ham, and biscuits. He had stacked his firewood in such a manner, banking it with bales of hay, so as to give shelter for his chickens and every morning he would find at least five fresh eggs.


Lunch was a small meal of dried or smoked meat and a slice or two of fresh bread. After lunch he would regularly clean up his breakfast and lunch dishes and then out for his daily walk around the lake.


According to O’Brien’s firsthand accounts it was late November, near


Thanks-giving when disquieting events began and continued to grow until he finally vacated his camp near the winter solstice. His walks about the little body of water, where before had been comforting, were no longer a restful stroll. He began to feel as if he were being watched at times and after the first occurrence he made a wider circuit about the area with improvised snow shoes but could find no tracks in evidence. Even though he could discover no trace of unseen witnesses the feeling continued and grew stronger.


The sensation at first was only unsettling but as it continued to appear as days went by he felt a change. While it seemed a mere interest at first the intellect behind whatever observed him grew more unnerving as there became a palpable hint of evil behind the feeling. What ever was watching him did not intend any good will.


He now covered the distance about the lake, recording his findings and returning to his hovel at an accelerated pace. His leisurely perambulations of an hour to two now became a matter of twenty minutes or less. On those days when the sky was a basalt grey and the air still and heavy he all but jogged about the lake, loathe putting off his routine out of some indefinable fear but spurred on to a greater hurry nonetheless.


In either a reaction to his unease, or because they could also sense the change themselves, the chickens had grown nervous and flighty. The slightest noise could make them take to wing and flutter to the top of his hut. At times when he was out and about his cell, gathering wood for the fire, they would cluster about his feet making it hard for him to walk as if they sought reassurance by physical contact with him.


By the second week in December the sensation was constant and oppressive. The feeling did not originate in any one direction but seemed to permeate the entire forest around the lake and was directed toward the lake and O’Brien’s hovel. The lake seemed to be the focus of whatever malevolence inhabited the area and physical sensations now seemed to accompany it. The breezes that found their way through the winter trees had become as breath slowly drawn in and exhaled from some gulf of a nether realm. There was a distinct animation to the sound as if it came from a beast of enormous size, sniffing and hunting around his camp yet try as he might he could never find evidence to support his growing concern of being hunted.


O’Brien stated that he himself became as jumpy as his flock of hens and every little sound caused him to start. Through some trick of the wind the breathing sound at times would take on a moaning quality that made the skin crawl and the scalp prickle. He became so nervous that he would jump at his own shadow as it fell before him in his path around the lake. Snow settling and falling from branches to the blanket of white below would almost make him bolt back to his little hut, the only safety he could find in this increasingly inhospitable landscape.


On the eve of the winter solstice he retired to his hut early. A feeling of unquiet anticipation had beset the land all day and he took in all the stores he could fit and stacked enough wood to last a couple of days as if he did not anticipate leaving the little cabin for a while. The day had been dark and overcast since the sun rose. Grey clouds the color of old metal hung low above and moved sluggishly from north to south in their own migration. A hush had descended upon the area and even the chickens refrained from their constant clucking as if they too listened for some sound to indicate what troubled the little lake. The air was strangely warm and the arthritic limbs of the trees surrounding O’Brien’s camp sloughed off their shawls of white and pock marked the blanket beneath with falling snow. This was the only sound to be heard. To the itinerant laborer it seemed as if the entire earth was holding its breath in anticipation.


The shortest day of that year ended dark and sullen. The skies remained overcast. No sun was to be seen as it set in the west. The twilight that embraced the day deepened and the temperatures plummeted. An arctic chill swept in from the north as night took hold of the land and O’Brien was thankful for the foresight in stocking up on his fire wood. He thought for a brief moment of trying to gather his hens within his hovel but the thought of the resulting mess dissuaded him from attempting it.


Just as he dismissed the idea he became aware of a sound from without and it was with apprehension that he felt glad he had not ventured outside of his hovel. A soft booming like that of distant thunder had begun to reverberate from without and as cold as it was, O’Brien broke out in a sweat of fear. The sound started out soft and low, almost so low that the man failed to notice when it began or when he grew aware of it. But it was soon apparent that the volume of the noise was growing as if whatever was causing it was drawing nearer.


Through an open chink in the walls that O’Brien had left as a sort of window the man peered out breathlessly into the dark evening as he tried to discover the author of the approaching noise. It came from beyond the lake facing the cabin. The clouds had started breaking up and a crescent moon lit up the land between the scuttling clouds. Vast expanses of snow covered landscape were lit up as if with spot lights from above. The trees stood out now and then as dark stripes rising from the illumined whiteness below. Having viewed them time and again during the day and in the twilight of the warmer seasons the trees now held a foreboding aspect to O’Brien and he shuddered again from impulses other than the cold. They appeared Roman columns rising from the dimpled land to disappear into the heavens, stark and emotionless and slightly evil. He could see nothing lurking about, nothing to make the massive pounding that was plainly evident to his senses.


A new noise had begun softly, indistinctly but presently impressed itself upon the cowering man. It was a snuffling, as if from a large dog. It emanated from a monster that dwarfed by far any dog known to O’Brien. It was a massive beast, the author of the gurgling, throaty snuffling that was almost a growl. Something was scenting the area. The booming continued aimlessly, as if something massive was tromping about the lake, pausing every now and then to scent the air, as the heavy, breathing, growling noise came periodically as the stomping paused.


O’Brien huddled in abject terror, unable to tear his frightened gaze from the narrow slit in the front of his cabin, even though his terrified eyes beheld nothing but the strobe-like illuminated empty land about the lake. Stare as he might at the empty landscape he could find no author of the terrible noise without. For hours he crouched thus at his tiny loop hole and searched for anything to assuage his horror. Even espying a monster of most horrendous visage and proportions would have been a relief to the man. Better that than to see nothing. Clearly Amber Lake was haunted by something not of this realm.


His muscles sore and cramped from his awkward posture O’Brien could not tear himself away from the view, empty as it was. His hens had become unnaturally silent as they too, no doubt, cowered in terror from the unseen visitor before them. The sounds continued and the invisible creature moved from its position on the far side of the lake to stalk towards the camp. O’Brien was beside himself in abject terror. His every sense became preternaturally enhanced as adrenaline surged throughout him. His crackling fire was like the boom of a summer thunderstorm to his ears and he feared its noise would act as a beacon to the prowler without but he was frozen, he could do nothing to bank the fire. He was petrified with fright. Whatever was outside, visible or not, seemed to be hunting.


The lurker without kept its hunting up as it moved ever closer and closer to the hut. O’Brien could now feel the tremors caused by footsteps as dust from dried clay fell from the roof of his hovel and cups and pots clattered on the hooks where they hung. His entire cabin seemed to tremble with each footstep of his unseen assailant. Here a pause, the growling snuffling, then a continuance of the footsteps. It was apparent that the being was heading straight toward his cabin as if it had scented the man and sought it for a meal.


Booming footfalls drew nearer and nearer the log shed as the man within trembled uncontrollably in fear for his very life. Right up to the door of his meager hut the being strode. The breathing came from above as if from an unseen throat some 18 feet above him. O’Brien held his breath and shivered so hard his muscles hurt. A hen darted from its perch next to the woodpile. It had as much as its pitiful nerves could stand. With an almost human cry it cackled and fluttered its wings away from the invisible horror that stood before it, the noise of its flight like a rifle shot in the stillness of that terrible night.


As if a cannon fuse had been lit, the hen’s attempt at escape spurred the unseen monster into a rage. With a roar that was more a scream than anything else it exploded into action. So loud and large was the growling roar that its bass staccato shook the cabin as its footsteps never had. The mouth from which such a noise had issued must have been held right up to the cabin’s door. The roar blasted for several long heartbeats but O’Brien was unaware of its duration. He had mercilessly fainted from fear.






The camp was undisturbed when O’Brien regained consciousness late the next morning. His hovel stood unmarred, its walls and roof still intact even though the itinerant laborer had expected to see it in tatters. Actually the man was quite surprised to find himself still alive. He had expected to be consumed by what ever monster had visited him the night before. Cautiously he peered out his loop hole but nothing disturbed the scene before him.


Weak as if from days of extreme physical labor he moved about his cabin as he dressed with his winter garments. As frightened as he had been the night before he had an overwhelming desire to look for signs of his nocturnal visitor. Clothed in coat, boots, mittens, he left the relatively safe confines of his hut behind and view the morning.


The snow was unbroken except where falling clumps had dotted the land about the tree trunks. There were no footprints anywhere. There was no trail through the snow coming up from the south side of the lake. No other path than the one he had beaten around the lake stood before him. The lake itself was as undisturbed as it had been all during his stay at his camp. He could find no evidence to support what he began to believe was a hallucination brought on by solitude and isolation. He turned to return to his hovel and froze in his tracks.


Above his hut, on the snow that covered its roof, were remains of his chickens. Blood was everywhere and feathers and bits of viscera lay scattered all about. A crimson stain like an open wound marred the white snow on his roof. Something had made a feast of his hens. The little bits of them that were left behind showed that the maw that feasted upon them had been expansive and massive. Most of the hens had probably been swallowed whole. None had escaped the slaughter.


This was the final straw for O’Brien. In frenzied haste he gathered what stores he could carry upon his back and strapping on his snow shoes left the lake behind. Far in the distance behind he could hear the snuffling and this added speed to his tracks. In frenzied haste he beat a path through drift and ravine north until he found his way to an undisclosed lumber camp three days later. Apparently he had walked non stop the entire time. Near exhaustion and suffering the rigors of exposure he was rushed to Doc Hoage’s office in nearby Ewen. The doctor’s records are confidential but did confirm that O’Brien had suffered an ordeal, had the marks of exposure about him, and “exhibited a mental exhaustion.”


The story of the rambling man found its way to a couple local newspapers and they treated it with characteristic aplomb, it was only an amusing human interest story. The man was a wanderer and a confessed petty thief. Any credibility he might hope for was already dismissed. He could expect no one to believe him when he told of what had happened to him out there in the mysterious woods of Michigan. It was only another anecdote of strange happenings in strange environs; merely entertainment to the readers of the periodicals.


Years later, when O’Brien was once again in New York City, at the Museum of Natural History, he had an apparent relapse. Again he fainted from what attending physicians attributed to fear induced shock. O’Brien later recorded in a journal for which he could find no publisher that he had finally seen the author of the roar that had terrified him that adventurous year he had stayed beside the shores of Amber Lake in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. He was certain in his mind what kind of monster had terrorized him that night. The moment he had laid eyes upon the restored skeleton of the


terror lizard”, the tyrannosaurus rex he firmly believed it had been just such a creature as this that had strode about his camp, hunting for food the night of that frigid winter solstice.






Is Amber Lake a nexus for other worldly spirits, a doorway through which they can find purchase from time to time to our side of reality? Are there forces at play in the northern woods of Michigan that keep evil alive, or allow visitations from dim eons past? Do the fog shrouded deep woods hide more than just virgin timber and untapped mineral deposits? Is reality everything we can see, touch, smell, hear, taste, and feel? What happened to O’Brien up there in the early years of the twentieth century that would account for his newspaper stories and medical records?






Could he really have been visited by a ghost that was over 100 million years old?

The Road Less Traveled

Harlan Solomon Waters moved across the clearing with slow deliberation. He was being hunted and now his every move was calculated for safety. Nothing showed along the edges of the opening as he waited patiently. The wandering doe and fawn convinced him he was alone. His steps were even, subconsciously paced to cause him no exertion. Long ferns plucked timidly at his knee-high boots, shy and retiring they offered scant resistance. Daisies, Devil’s Paintbrushes, and tiny white wild flowers peeked demurely from the grasses to watch him pass. Breezes moved in waves over the meadow in amber surfs, gently brushing the late autumn grains of gold. Harlan centered his pack on his back to distribute its weight evenly. With the descending sun behind him he still had a long walk ahead of him. His horse had fallen earlier to the arrows of his assailants. He was forced to leave it behind. Now he went afoot. Yet he loved this wild, northern peninsula and all of its mysterious hauntings and superstitions.

Harlan was an imposing figure. He stood roughly five foot nine and topped at about 180 pounds. He hid beneath his loose tan shirt and dark brown britches powerful corded muscles. This often surprised any who sought to test his strength and abilities. He wore a short-crowned, large-brimmed, grey hat, shading steel grey eyes. A thin nose jutted proudly above a trim greying mustache and narrow mouth. A close-cropped beard showed more grey, hinting at age. The grey was mirrored in his hair, which he wore long and in a tail at the back. Yet his ruddy complexion from years of exposure to the sun and elements held no further evidence of time. His age was a mystery to his acquaintances. A long coat was draped through the straps of his backpack along with a thick cloak. At his belt hung a rapier and dagger, an iron hatchet, and a brace of pistols. Over his right shoulder his flintlock hung suspended on a wide leather strap.


The tall and hoary trees of the north woods offered shade from the intense summer sun and shelter from the passing strong thunderstorms of the season. The intermittent freshets were a blessing as they gave relief from the heat and obscured his tracks, making it difficult for his pursuers to follow. Somewhere ahead was the French fort of Saulte Ste Marie. He knew he could find supplies there and possibly secure another mount. The autumn season was young and he hoped the stables would yet be full.


The grisly reminder he had passed at midday, a scalped corpse of a wayward settler, covered in black flies and smelling of decay steeled his determination to win through this area and get his report to his commanders; officers of the young, growing republic. Both the British and the French had done poorly by their native neighbors during their settlement and the subsequent conflicts, incurring them to such extremes for their Old World allies. Such habits of scalping an enemy had been an aforetime unthought of affront to one’s fallen foes. Counting coup, the odd habit of simply touching an opponent during battle, was often enough to satisfy honor. With the British introduction of bounty for collected hairpieces that practice was gone, replaced by the more barbaric act of stripping a corpse of its pate. The young man that Harlan had found in the declivity of the brief ravine, mute testimony to the unfortunate one-sided battle, raised the bile in his throat with impotent rage. His knuckles, white in the grip he had on his pistols, shook in barely restrained emotion. He had to check himself from tearing off full tilt in the direction which he suspected lay the native village. Instead he steeled himself to continue on his appointed mission. Even with the accord of the Treaty of Paris in 1763 there was still conflict and battles along disputed lines and the land below the great lake the locals called Gitcheegume was rife with bloodshed. All but expelled from the continent the French were still embedded in remote hidden places, struggling to regain what the treaty had cost them. The British, for their part, were in no hurry to lose the assets the north woods afforded them. Imperial and greedy they remained regardless of what the young county of America suggested or requested.


Shortly after midday he came upon the culprits that had dealt death to the lad in the ravine. Harlan heard them at a distance conversing quietly in a copse of trees and utilizing all his talents at woodcraft he closed the distance between them, soundless as a spectre. From his concealment he spied on them as they rested. Though dressed as savages they conversed in English with very strong British accents. These, then, were agent provocateurs intent on throwing suspicion and hatred upon the Native Americans. One had a scar running from forehead to chin and looked familiar to Harlan. Their mission no doubt was to incite hostility in the lands around the Great Lake. Harlan listened long enough to find out their plans. He then left their locale as quietly as a shadow passing before the moon. He would have much to tell once he achieved a fort or settlement that could boast of dispatch riders. The message would have to be sent to New York City before he could make an appearance in person. He melted into the surrounding green and hastily resumed his trek eastward.


He was unsure the direction the two had been traveling. Chances were they had some plan to move about the area committing heinous acts to further the animosity between the races. Harlan suspected they had been in the area for some time and would probably remain so for a while longer. Before too long however he suspected he had picked up a shadow. Once their arrows reached his steed he knew for certain. The British agents had been joined by two others and it was the new comers that had laid the ambush. The small clearing had appeared peaceful and serene until their arrows drove full upon him. Then they charged at him from both sides, those from the east closer and fresh while those behind were winded and hard pressed to join the attack. His horse fought bravely but was pierced by a half dozen arrows and as it went down he leapt clear and rolled with its fall. The tumbling somersault brought him up behind his fallen mount and his pistols spoke into the still Northwood’s silence. His first ball dropped the British spy closest to him, crashing through the center of the man’s skull. The second tore through the knee of his companion. He dropped in agony, his leg ruined, death a certainty as his life blood poured from the wound.


Harlan was up and running, pulling his hatchet from his belt. He left the other two at his back as he sprinted away from the area. As he passed the spy on the ground he swung his left hand and the razor sharp blade of his hatchet bit into the man’s neck and all but severed his head from his shoulders.


An angry shout of “You!” issued from the man with the scar. “You Irish bastard!” he cried. The two he had spied upon had caught up. He paused only long enough for the man to fire his rifle. The ball hit just near his right foot, throwing up dirt and leaves. Harlan turned and left the lifeless bodies on the ground. He reached the relative safety of the woods beyond and melted into them. The heavily wooded expanse of the Michigan wilderness and his familiarity with its environs held him in good stead and he soon left pursuit far behind. He had no idea where he had met the Brit before. Still the man must have a hate fueled vengeance which spurred him on.


A grey granite haze hung heavily in the sky. Great massive, billowy clouds rose from the blanket, foretelling of more approaching storms. The breeze was cool when it was strong, but as it died down the air became heavy and moist, almost tropical, yet without the refreshing effect of ocean-borne breezes. At those times it simply hung oppressively on the countryside. He entered an open area and paused in his flight. He debated whether to skirt it to avoid detection or to cross it openly. Ahead he could see a line of rain approaching as another seasonal freshet washed the land. He sprinted just as it arrived. The rain would hide his tracks from his pursuers.


Once across the field, Harlan moved into more forestland. Dark verdant twilight replaced the diffused illumination of the overcast sky. The day became darker and the air more stifling. A silence broken only by the rustling of leaves high up in the trees settled over the traveler and a premonition thrilled the hairs at the base of his neck. Hackles attuned to the unseen prickled in irritation.


The area became more difficult to travel. Rocky outcrops jutted from the earth and there was a definite rise to the ground. He was entering the western edge of those mountains the natives named after the porcupine. Tales and legends painted this area with terrible mysteries and fear haunted specters. Well versed in the superstitious beliefs of most locales, Harlan was usually inured and immune to their influence borne of uneducated ignorance. Yet as he continued on he could not shake the growing feeling of unease that settled its clammy fingers over mind and body. It deadened his energy and sapped his spirit.


The afternoon was spent and daylight was beginning to fail as evening approached. Immense hoof beats of thunder shook the mountains and now and then Harlan could see flashes of lightening through breaks in the trees. It reflected off the bluffs that rose to the left and right of him. Soon the tempest would break. He began to search in earnest for some form of shelter. He would need cover from the encroaching weather and advancing night. He was in an area where prehistoric natives had once mined copper and pits and caves cut crude forays into the heart of the bluffs.


Harlan made his way to the largest one he could find in this locality. It was half way up a slope. His concern was of possible flooding or the more likely possibility of it being inhabited by a bear. Mountain lion could be present too or wolf, wolverine, or any other dangerous animal. In the waning light of day he explored the interior and was satisfied of its vacancy and its relative safety from flooding. Its roof was even free of pestilent infected bats. Its floor rose steeply at the entrance before leveling off towards the rear. This should guarantee that runoff from even the heaviest of downpours would find its way outside. He dropped his pack gently to the floor of the ancient abandoned mine. Windfalls of leaves and branches profusely littered the floor. Harlan gathered these using a branch to sweep and gather the detritus into a pile and applying flint and steel presently had a large blaze brightening the interior. Now he could examine his surroundings better.


It was evident by chisel marks and other such scars and lines that a good majority of his shelter had been enlarged and sculpted by hand. Crude paintings decorated one side as if various wayfarers, finding succor within, sought to leave their mark behind; an indication of their presence, something to show they had been there, anything to give the brief passing of their existence validity, immortality. These marks were crowded near the entrance and all looked to be made much later than the mining of the short tunnel.


Harlan returned to his pack and withdrew a parcel of Bess’s Brown Wax Paper. Wrapped within was a store of dried venison. He removed a piece and stuck it in his mouth, returning the remainder to his pack. Moving about the exterior of the entrance he gathered a supply of branches and chunks of loose tree trunks with which he returned to the enclosure. He chose a wide branch of pine and after fraying the end of it with his iron hatchet lit it in his campfire. Holding his makeshift torch off to the side he returned to the walls of the place. He had noticed some curious markings during his cursory examination and now his interest could be sated. At the back of the man-made cavern there was row upon row of markings that could not have been made by anything other than determined thought. He recognized them immediately. They were as old as the excavation, possibly left by the engineers that created the mine. Though indications of advanced peoples united in this endeavor, the presence of these marks gave Harlan a mystery the truth of which he would probably never know. Before him in the rock face, recognizable only to those who were familiar with these alphabets, were both, in measured lines and columns, Celtic Ogham and Iberian Punic. To anyone else they might simply resemble mere marks caused by random chiseling of the wall but Harlan remembered the scripts.


Most of what they spoke was lost on the traveled adventurer. They spoke of a time that the mine was created but without the frame of reference for the year of which they stated the information was meaningless. Both the pre-Spanish and the pre-Irish declarations imprisoned within the stone were void of any evidence that could be related to an age. At the very end of the bilingual declaration was a report of a large volcanic eruption, if Harlan read it correctly, of which the authors were afraid might curtail their mineralogical efforts in this “new world” that they had begun to exploit.


Harlan mused over this for several long moments. Before him was evidence that there was organized trafficking between the Old World and the New World long before Columbus’ historic voyage, for certainly these marks were a good deal more than four hundred years old! He was reminded of the stories he had heard of the Neolithic structures the colonists had found in New England and other coastal areas. Discovered but not understood, they left another mystery as of yet unsolved in the New World.


Could a volcanic eruption stem the congress between the two continents? Sea travel depended almost entirely on stellar navigation. Suppose those stars could not be seen for a great length of time. Was there a volcano that could have caused enough ash to blanket the skies long enough for mankind to forget that it once traveled extensively between Europe and the Americas? Had there been another disaster? Could the cessation of travel been a conscious decision by all peoples involved? It became evident to Harlan that there was some unknown event that caused just such a division of the two hemispheres leaving them ignorant of one another until Columbus and his peers plied the seas.


An intellectual puzzle, for sure, but the evening had grown late as he pondered it. He added the remainder of the fuel to the fire. Using a branch with leaves still clinging to its tender fingers; he swept another area against a wall free from twigs and stones. Then, wrapping himself in his cloak, he laid down. He put aside all such considerations and sought repose for the night.


Sleep, ever a mercurial companion to the worldly traveler, proved a reluctant visitor this eve. The weather broke shortly after he had lain down. Cannonades of thunder targeted the hills. Jagged flashes lit the world in bleached, frozen instances, stark white in their electric fury. The noise alone was enough to keep anyone from sleeping peacefully, but the added strobes of blinding brilliance could neither be ignored. And when the lightning wasn’t crackling about and the blast of thunder was absent, the air moved through the mountains and bluffs, roaring, keening, moaning eerily as it passed. Harlan was in for a restless night. Yet in respites he dozed as best as he was able.

The next day dawned bright and clear. With the catnaps he was able to work in during lapses in the storm’s fury, Harlan was rested and ready to resume his journey east. Extinguishing the smoldering embers of his fire he left the small cave behind. This leg of the trek was not going to be an easy endeavor for tree falls and rock tumbles were everywhere. The “Porcupine Mountains” would have been a difficult passage in the best of conditions but with the effects of the tempest evident all around, it would now prove doubly so. Tightening the straps of his pack he shifted his scabbards towards the back of his belt and took his rifle in hand. He entertained the thought just briefly of leaving the weapon behind as he would no doubt need both hands but instead he broke it down into its component pieces and, removing his pack, secured it within. Returning the bulky parcel to his back, he once again cinched the straps tight and began his descent from his cavern retreat.


The rain had washed the season’s debris from the land and the air smelled fresh and clean. Yet, the effect of the storm system was evident everywhere. The force of the wind alone had felled massive trees and others bore the mark of glancing lightning strikes. Still others had been entirely blasted to their roots by a direct hit. Deep burnt scars edged with melted, glassed sand in the earth showed where the living bolts had kissed and licked the terrain. Other scars were furrowed into the soil where new causeways had been forced by the implacable flooded runoffs. Immense trunks and large boughs and branches now blocked Harlan’s progress through once existent pathways and game trails. Yet he was confident that he could find his way through. He was comforted in the knowledge that had his assailants been caught out in the deluge they no longer threatened to dog his trail and if they survived they would be hard pressed to come across it.


Moving patiently with safety ever foremost in his mind, Harlan kept a steady pace as the morning grew old and the sun climbed toward its zenith. His exertions heated him and he was forced to remove his shirt to easier vent his perspiration. His arms and chest bunched in tight defined ripples as his muscles received a strenuous work out. Applying their great strength helped him over and through the ruble-strewn pathways. Here and there defiles were cluttered with the ruins of boulders that had sat in majestic repose upon some hill side or bluff top until the wild tempest of the night had brought them crashing down. Here and there massive rock walls stood naked for the first time in centuries, as their silt and soil coverlets were merciless stripped from their bosom. Birds and small animals returned to the area and paused in their affairs to watch the man pass among them. They disappeared early on the previous day, sensing the approach of the terrific storms. In watching them Harlan had known of the changing weather pattern. Their presence today indicated that the worst of the rains might be over. A gathering of crows, ravens, and black birds squabbling ahead caught his attention and he detoured to see what the commotion was about. At the bottom of a bluff a young female dear lay half buried in silt; its death from a fall during the storm. Already the doe carcass had been picked over and this was the prize disputed by the avians. The sight made Harlan aware that he was hungry. He stopped for a short rest.


Sitting upon a fallen log he settled his pack on the ground. Retrieving the parcel of wax paper he emptied its contents. Chewing slowly, slaking his thirst from his water skin, he enjoyed a small meal as his ever vigilant glance roved over bluff and ridge. The crags rose in modest spires around him reaching their marble grasp toward the azure expanse above. Lichen and vines that had defied the rains still clung to the perpendicular climbs. As if in contract to the blue-black stone of the mountains, ochre wedges of sandstone stood out against cliffs. The wedges looked as if some giant had sliced them from the earth with a cleaver, precariously balancing them in an imitation of the enigmatic Stonehenge. Among these bright monoliths something caught Harlan’s eye. One group, tumbled haphazardly from the storm, had opened a new passage into the mountains. It was an opening that probably had not existed since the dawn of time. Titans in a fragile balance loomed overhead, threatening to close the passage once again, protecting it against eternity. The call to adventure burned within the traveler. He could no more fight against the curiosity that surged through him than he could have held back the deluge the prior evening.


Almost like one possessed he abandoned his pack, promising himself that he would return to this spot. He moved carefully through the jumbled slabs of sandstone, picking his way over and under their massive forms. Some trembled to his touch, attesting to their tender balance. Once beyond the confusion of storm tossed obelisks he stood at the head of a broad avenue. It proceeded downward before him. Straight and handsome bluffs stood on either side of the thoroughfare and short grasses and mosses and ferns carpeted the expanse. The avenue ran compass-straight before him, north to the exact degree, which he confirmed with his own hand held device. Here was another mystery for which he knew he might despair of ever answering. For certainly the way the bluffs were shaped and the manner of precision the opening ran before him; this was another feature of this history haunted land that had been formed by intelligent hands. The thoroughfare had been carved into the mountain’s granite leaving perfect perpendicular walls. This was far older than was the mine in which he had sheltered the night before. Yet this endeavor dwarfed that of the miners. One could have driven a coach and six down this avenue and there still would have been room for oncoming traffic of like size.


Birds and rodents were in profusion here. There appeared nothing down this course which he might fear. Indeed, his inner senses did not foretell of any threat ahead. The midday sun showed down with a dappling emerald daylight. The day was still and bright. Summer lay upon the world; a golden blanket. The lure of the discoverer was strong upon Harlan and he moved forward, searching eyes taking in every detail in rapt attention.


Glancing behind Harlan could see a change in the geologic strata, when these mountains were thrust upward they split this part of the boulevard. It ended at the sandstone-choked entrance, burying the extension in the rocky turbulence of the bluffs and cliffs behind. He could tell that this road traveled on further behind but the change in the mountains had interrupted the course. Ahead the road continued along downward a scant length before leveling off. In the distance, between the cloven mountains, he could see the way continued on, it terminus lost in an emerald gloom. He would have to go on if he wished to see the end of this mysterious road. Nothing could have held him back.


Distracted by the unique features of the land he was unaware when the silence first settled in. Presently he became conscious that once again the animal life had left the immediate surroundings. This was a quiet that not even a whispering breeze interrupted. Yet this absence of wildlife did not foretell of approaching storms. Harlan scanned the skies as best as he could from within the trench. Clear skies with but a few clouds were overhead. He glanced back along the way he had just come and he could see insects and birds flitting about in the distance. But between him and the flying creatures there seemed to be an invisible line of demarcation. Something kept them at bay just a short distance behind.


He stopped in his tracks and glanced about slowly. Turning every degree of the compass he studied his surroundings but could make no discernable evidence of why this phenomenon should occur. Retrieving a pistol from his wide belt he gave it a half cock and carried it loosely in his left hand. With his right hand he gripped his iron hatchet and squaring his shoulders proceeded on again this time with slower, more deliberate steps.


Sweat trickled from his hatband running down his neck and threatened to drip off his brows into his eyes. He shook his head sharply and the perspiration flew from his face. The sun beat down relentlessly into the stone avenue. The day was becoming uncomfortably hot but a slight shiver ran down Harlan’s spine bringing gooseflesh to his naked torso. Who could guess what he might discover down this road? There was a feeling of immense antiquity smothering the land and it muted the world beyond the boulevard. This road had been choked off long before man had set food on this part of the world. The emerald twilight, which dimmed the trail in increasing darkness, was due to the overhead trees and creepers that formed an arch over the expanse, shutting out the light as the road descended. The ground beneath became moist and covered in damp moss and dipped at a slight angle as it progressed, becoming steeper and steeper. More than once the careful adventurer slipped as his measured footing missed a secure step. Steamy vapors infused the air as the condensation from the verdure dripped down the canyon walls. The atmosphere became stifling as the heat and humidity rose to unbearable degrees. Yet still the man marched forward. The greenery became fungoid and the color slowly leached from it, turning grey and sickly.


He had noticed a change in the face of the walls to the right and left of him. Beneath creepers and vines, almost buried under the spongy leaves, he made out curious and monstrous carvings. The myriad petals obscured most of what lay beneath but from what he could make out Harlan knew the features of the engraved images must have been repellent and obscene. They bordered on the insane. Serpentine or reptilian they were bloated and grotesque and pictured a race of intelligent bipedal beings, a parody perhaps of humanity, possibly a joke played by the race that had carved them. They were disquieting, disturbing, riveting. As the sight of them was leading to distraction he had to put them from his mind, consciously willing himself not to look upon them anymore and concentrate on the road ahead. It had become a matter of principal for him to see what lay at the end of this boulevard. He was as a man possessed. For good or ill he had to follow its course. As things were progressing he felt a growing concern that it would be anything but pleasant.


As the way dipped sharply ahead to end in a level court there was some curious structure in the middle of the trench. Beyond it appeared that the road stopped. Harlan paused a good fifty yards from the thing and gazed at it in wonder.


The structure, if it could be called thus, appeared to be made of interconnecting massive stone obelisks. They were joined together in an ingenious manner that interwove the four gargantuan pieces as if they were bands in some hand woven basket. It appeared to be a perfect cube, each edge looked to be the exact length of its cousins, and it was supported above the mossy floor of the road by four massive rounded columns each at a corner. Beneath the massive structure the moss was dark and wet in the shade, soft and fungoid in the ebon shadow. Except for where the individual pieces were seamed together there were no other markings on the construction. Where one might expect hieroglyphs or ancient, indiscernible alphabets there was smooth surface.


Here was evidence of intelligence inhabiting the area long ago. Further back in time than when the miners cut into the bluff faces. Much like the thoroughfare this obvious construct of intelligent hands posed more questions than answers. He moved forward carefully. He returned his pistol and hatchet to his belt and removing his hat wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a forearm. Slowly, cautiously, he approached the monolith. The world paused in trepid anticipation. As he neared the granite cube he could discern a growing roar emanating from the structure. It was a curious thing. The closer he approached, the louder the noise became until quite near it was almost deafening, yet a scant three paces away he could scarcely hear it. Never before had he encountered such a phenomenon. It was as if the winds of the worlds tried either to enter or to escape from between the tight seams of the stonework in one concerted alien inhuman voice. Enraged they were held at bay by some other unseen influence. Up close the howling voice was bestial, railing at its bondage. At a distance it was the rushing of gales over some distant cliff.


Harlan moved along the edge of the trench, water dripping in green strands from the overhanging leafy bower above. His leather boots squelched in the sodden ground beneath. He placed his back to the perpendicular walls of the channel and made his way around the object before him. Directly behind the structure stood a small pedestal with carvings that were very dissimilar to those that traced the walls of the channel earlier. The pedestal was of the same stone as the cube but looked like it had been fashioned by other hands, other minds. It was more delicate though it looked solid and heavy. The tracery of the line of the perpendicular grooves cut into the column of its base differed from the adamant unadorned utility of the massive cube. The top lay at an angle and sloped facing away from the cube as if those who stood before it must face the square’s massive structure. In the center of the top was a curious astrological carving with an even stranger centerpiece cut into a separate stone.


The stars and constellations of the carving were none like he had ever seen either in the night heavens or upon any alchemist’s map. They were from some remote time or place before humanity trod its foot upon sun bathed shores. They gave the pedestal an altogether hideous countenance. Drawn to it, as if moved by some will other than his own, Harlan approached the pedestal. As one paralyzed he became a prisoner in his own body. He found his limbs no longer responded to his will. With steps stiff and corpse-like he closed with the column. His hands placed themselves upon its rough surface of their own accord. Sweat beaded upon his forehead as he struggled with an ego other than his own. It was controlling his movements. Certain dread enveloped him. He knew helplessness the likes of which he had never before encountered in his long life. His limbs shook as he strove to regain control of his own body. His eyes centered on the object in middle of the carvings. A bloated toad shaped monstrosity no more than three inches in diameter sat in a notched circle. The circle was divided into the points of the compass and it in turn sat into a recessed area that looked like it allowed the whole to be turned like some control device or key assembly.


By the grace of some higher reasoning facility Harlan knew that through this simple contrivance the obscene wonder and terrible secret, the horror of the monolithic construct before him, could be unleashed. He stared at the hideous carving in terror as his hand began to move toward it. As his gloved hand closed over the hated stone likeness something entered his mind. Images like the blinking of an eye, flashes of another age, other races, strobed before his mind. The earth was a barren battlefield as gargantuan beings warred with one another. A flash! Elephantine beings whose single foot measured larger than the London Tower moved ponderous and deadly over the land. Another flash. Shadows of dark shapes flew above the blasted heath that had been the world. A blink! Amorphous demons crawled from seas which were no more than shallow muck encrusted water holes in a time long before the devil lizards and dragons held dominion over the land. A strobe of crimson sunset, the sun a wane and pale star. A continent sized snail defended the pre-European continent that was its home against horrible unseen assailants that threatened from the non-earthly heavens. These things and other abominations Harlan saw and knew to be fact as he stood there, subjected to some other power, hand resting upon the pedestal, upon the graven image that, miniscule though it was, mirrored what was god to all these things and others. Abject terror seized him. He had never seen nor felt such things. He had never been as close to panic as he was right now. He prayed with every fiber of his being to all the powers, and saints he knew that his hand would not activate the key, would not open the horrendous gateway that stood before him. His entire body shook as if with the ague as he strove to reclaim his faculties.


Just when he felt he could experience not another terror a different series of images began to move, more slowly, more controlled before his mind’s eye. Images also alien in form from humanity, but more similar than the beasts he was first subjected to, moved in dim shadow as if beyond the mortal veil. As if from behind, or as if they all stood with their backs to him, a gathering of beings, a conclave, had come together to banish the monstrous entities from this plane. Somehow he felt these creatures were from an older time. They were elder individuals. They wore robes and were definitely civilized, intelligent, yet Harlan he could tell that they were not human. Of a height with humanity they stood but what their form and countenance were like he could not tell from the vision as it played in his head. Somehow he knew the image was given to him not to show their appearance, but their intent. Through actions he could not understand these beings opened a tear in the very fabric of reality.


Inky blackness, shadows of shades, a nothingness opened in the very space that stood before Harlan. Ichors poured both into and out from reality as the monstrous forms were pulled inexorably into the void. Each horror was torn from its lair and, through the machinations of the elder creatures, forced to fold in upon themselves, forced to bend and contort into ways nothing three dimensional could ever achieve. Finally as they screeched and howled and yammered insanely they were forced into the rift and from the sight of the world. The earth was a barren and lifeless expanse upon which God could now work his wonders, bringing forth life from the seas. Some millennia later mankind would hold back the night with burning brands as he painted himself with wode and clay to appease the goddess of the moon and humor the horned god of the hunt.


A noise not in keeping with the scene shattered the milieu that held Harlan trapped. His will returned and he glanced up quickly in time to see the two British agents skulking towards him. They had been joined by three more and all were dressed as Indians; Scar Face in the rear. They were still a few paces away and hadn’t noticed they’d been discovered. Drenched with sweat, weak and trembling Harlan was released from whatever hold had been upon him. Barely able to stand he leaned heavily upon the pedestal before the granite cubical. His breath came in ragged sobs as he fought to regain his composure. What he had just witnessed, what he had just endured, should never again be forced upon anyone, even these enemies. Certainly it was a lesson, a warning post to any whom might stumble upon this abhorrent location. But now he had to deal with normal, mortal enemies and it was almost a relief to him after what he had just witnessed.


The agents had each taken a stance at the walls of the thoroughfare, three on the left, two on the right. This is what gave them away. Had they come straight on the huge cube would have blocked them from Harlan’s view. He could tell by their expressions they thought him still under the influence of what had ensnared his mind. They glanced curiously at the huge stone edifice but did not give it much thought as they advanced. Marshalling strength even he was unaware he had Harlan slide his hatchet from his belt and threw it underhanded to bury the blade deep into the head of the man closest. He then rolled to the opposite side, retrieving the dagger from its sheath and propelled it with what force he could muster. It buried itself to the hilt in the chest of the closest man on that side. Loud curses followed from the three still alive. They began to rush his position.


Harlan dove to the damp ground beneath the massive stone block. The agents on the left opened fire with their flintlocks and the shots thundered in the enclosed space. The lead projectiles ricocheted off of the stone walls of the avenue. An answering thunder roared even louder as a force shot out from the massive stone block and reached out for the men. Harlan’s view was obscured by the huge object overhead but the screams that tore through the air told of the horrendous massacre. Scar Face turned and started running back the way they had come. He had gone far enough for Harlan to see his retreating form. Then a shadowy, ethereal polyp stretched out to the fleeing figure and lifted it from its feet. Wrapped in a tentacle more smoke than flesh the man struggled. He began to scream and cry in agony and as Harlan watched the man’s form withered as if crushed by tremendous power. Then the bloodied, pulpy mass seemed to be absorbed by the tenuous appendage or squeezed into a space that was apart from reality.


The roar that began after the rifle shot continued unabated for several long moments. Then it spent its fury and sank in volume until it was barely a whisper and then had disappeared all together. It was replaced by a thrumming that rose and fell rhythmically; a horrendous, gigantic heartbeat. Harlan waited for another half an hour after the roar had stopped before the throbbing ceased. He crawled from beneath the massive stone cube. On his knees he returned to the podium that stood before the object. Forcing himself to stand upright he watched as his hand once more closed upon the obscene stone toad. His gloved fist closed upon the stone figure and tore it from its mooring. He held it level with his eye and his hand creaked within the leather glove as his grip tightened. He looked again at the enormous monolithic structure before him and, steadying himself against the side of the channel, returned back the way he came. He paused just briefly to examine the spots where the agents met their deaths. Only droplets of blood gave mute evidence to their existence. Where he expected a spreading pool of the life essence there was but minute splashes. Still he was able to retrieve his hatchet and dagger. They were left behind, curious minute pits blemishing the blades.


He retraced his steps of earlier that day when the excitement of exploration could not be denied. Now he wished he had had the discipline to deny himself that impulse. It was nearing midday as he reached the entrance to this boulevard choked with giant sandstone wedges. Once more he carefully made his way past the delicately balanced Goliaths and afforded himself the benefit of rest only after he had left the thoroughfare behind.


Collapsing upon the sward next to his pack he lay on the ground and emptied his entire water skin into his mouth and over his head. Allowing moments to recoup his strength he arose from the turf and, studying the jumbled entrance to the mysterious trench, calculated which stones needed to be moved. Some he was able to relocate by hand. Back breaking task though it was, Harlan knew it to be necessary. His gloved hands quickly became dusty with the effort. Others he used his rope and other blocks as fulcrum to topple them through even greater exertions. With booming echoes they toppled to choke the pass as billows of dust and sand plumed like thunderclouds. The concatenation reverberated throughout the hills and bluffs as one after another the wedges toppled against themselves, causing even more to fall.


His limbs were leaden, spent from the exertions he had gone through this day. Yet it wasn’t until he was satisfied that not even a rodent could force its way through the jumbled caved-in thoroughfare did he finally sink once again to the ground. Panting, almost fainting from exhaustion, he let his eyes fall upon the hideous figure he had wrested from the control pedestal. The toad, graven in lifelike detail, looked back at him in alien defiance. It squatted upon its haunches, the graduated disk looking like some obscene posterior.


“You’ll be seen to presently,” he told it between gasps. He lay back and let his eyes gaze sightlessly at the clear sky above as it turned turquoise, then embraced the color of the sea as the sun hurried to the horizon’s bosom. He lay supine for the better part of an hour before he forced himself to stir. Rising painfully to his knees and then to his feet he placed the image upon a granite boulder and lifting another brought it down upon the statuette. Again and again he pummeled stone upon stone, smashing, breaking, grinding, he reduced the toad and its sundial-like disk to rubble, then to pebbles, and eventually to grains. Finally he pressed the weight in his hands against the stone and ground it around and around until he was satisfied that what lay beneath could be no more than dust.


With exhausted effort he pushed the top stone from the bottom and viewed his handiwork. The figurine had been transformed into a small pile of sand grains where once sat the toad. Stumbling to his pack he gained a small leather pouch into which he carefully swept the detritus, pulling the drawstring tight and tying it securely. As soon as he reached the great Superior Lake he would empty the contents into the constant churn of turbulent waves in the freshwater sea.


As he grabbed his pack and dragged it away from the spot, too weak to lift the burden Harlan Solomon Waters dwelled upon the final vision the pedestal had shown him before the attack of the British had wrested his sanity back from the brink. In the final vision the magic of the column imparted to him he knew there were, even now, secret societies moving unseen in horrendous intent throughout the world. They would have sought to open that gate in the stone cube at the end of that time lost thoroughfare, releasing those ancient horrors once again upon the unsuspecting world to wreck their terrible retribution.