After the canal, a new sound rolled across Keuka. It puffed. It hissed. It tooted.
Steamboats had come.
The first one was called the Keuka. Soon others followed: Steuben, Yates, Lulu, and, at last, the grand Mary Bell. They stitched the long lake together, from Penn Yan to Branchport to Hammondsport, like bright thread on blue cloth.
On deck, a girl named Lulu moved as quickly as a swallow. She could tie a dozen knots without looking. When dawn laid a silver seam down the middle of the lake, she walked the gunwale and felt the boat's heartbeat in the boards.
"It's LOUD," she sometimes shouted over the engine. "Too loud!" But she grinned when she said it.
Karl liked to race the steamers when children watched from the rail. He slipped along beside them, just under the skin of the water. At the last second, he always let the boat win by a whisker. Children cheered for the boat and squinted at the green-gold shadow in the wake, wondering.
When an old man stepped from dock to deck and his ankle wobbled, Karl thickened the water under the gangplank. The wobble turned into a solid step. The old man never knew. Karl did. He felt the tiny victory settle sweetly into his ribs.
On foggy nights, when whistles cried and captains worried, a soft, wide swell sometimes rose over hidden rocks. Boats slid over safely, never knowing why. Karl's tail left a faint glimmer that only fish could see.
Then came the Mary Bell. She was big and proud, with room for singing inside. Her dining room held lamps and voices. Her hull carried stories and Sunday hats. At night her lights shone on the water and made a second sky.
Karl swam beneath her and copied the pattern with his own small stars of light, just to see if he could.
Years passed. Trains and cars began to steal some of the work from the boats. One day the Mary Bell made her last trip. Her paint was dull. Her paddle beat slow and tired.
On the still water under Bluff Point, she let out one long, gentle whistle. It rose through the clear air. It fell slowly back down. It settled on the lake like a coat laid over a sleeping child.
Porches grew quiet. Men who had tied too many wet lines took off their hats. Lulu, older now, stood on the dock. She did not run or wave both arms. She lifted one hand and gave a single, perfect, steady goodbye.
Karl caught the whistle with his whole self. It slid into the deep place where he kept other voices: "Pass me the bowl." "Mind the fire." "Who wants another ear of corn?"
Now the Mary Bell's Goodnight rested there too.
Work changes. Boats come and go. But the lake remembers. The keeper remembers.
"We keep the lake," Karl said, looking up at the quiet sky, "and the lake keeps us."