A/N: This is a bit of a first for me, it's not the style I usually write in and it's definitely not the usual genre I write. Let me know what you all think.

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down, or so the song goes. A tale of doomed men and their machine, fighting a losing battle against the full power, might, and fury of nature herself. There aren’t many who haven’t heard it, but this is not that story. It is a story of men, doomed by fury and strength made manifest in a November storm on the lake called Superior; much like the more popular story, though this one is much older. It’s the story of an echo and of a force that exists to remind the world of men that they aren’t all that call the Great Lakes home.

This story takes place some time in the 1750s, an exact date is impossible to find as record keeping was poor in such a remote area as the one around what is now Duluth, as economically important as it may have been. It was a hub of fur trading at that time, and would be for another hundred years. Beaver was the rage in European fashion, thus giving rise to the legendary fur trappers: the Voyageurs. The Voyageurs might bring their haul to the trading posts in the area. From there Lake Superior and the other Great Lakes offered an excellent way to bring these furs to the ocean and to market in Europe. These lakes, while inland and fresh, are not to be trifled with, their size and the vicious weather of the area gives them ferocious power, as do the forces that lurk beneath them. These forces are young as forces of this kind go, but they have a connection to the power of the lakes and are all the more powerful for it. They have claimed the lakes; living beneath them, growing, resting, and sometimes both granting and asking respect or favors. And it is on one of those truly rare occasions where this story truly begins.

A vessel, not a Voyageur’s canoe, but a true sailing vessel was loading a cargo of furs bound for one of the ports on the Atlantic coast. Her name is lost to time, as was her dimensions, crew complement, or carrying capacity. However, her make was of a shipyard on the lakes and this was far from her first voyage. This route was one she had traveled many times in the past and she had braved the November storms before so the air around her was one of well measured confidence. Several crewmen were standing on the dock supervising the final loading of cargo and supplies when one of them was approached by a stranger. Which crewman was approached is unknown, some say that he was the captain, others a first or second mate, and still others say he was simply a sailor who was slow to get aboard.

What is known is that the crewman was asked by the stranger to take with him a box and perform a task with it when the vessel reached the ocean, most likely pouring out the contents in the ocean. This task would be rewarded with a guarantee of safe passage on this journey, not a sure thing in November on Superior. A fairly small thing, often said to be not much smaller than a shoe box and made of polished wood, it would have been an easy thing for even the lowest ranked crewman to take with him. But the legend says that the box felt wrong to the crewman, that the stranger offering it seemed a little too insistent, and there was a feeling of oddness about the stranger themselves. So the box was not accepted and the stranger was turned away, and the vessel departed without incident a short while later.

This stranger is yet another mystery character in this story. Their exact appearance and description is unknown and accounts are contradictory. Some claim that they were an older European settler or visiting company executive, others an aged native woman, and yet more claim far stranger ancestries still. All agree that the stranger was not young, and all agree that the stranger gave off an aura of an age greater than the not inconsiderable one they appeared to be. This aura is also said to have hinted at the stranger’s true nature far more strongly than anything else about them, that a visible calm and restraint hid a temper that was thunderous and destructive, a temper that doomed men and vessels alike, the temper of a seasonal storm. The force of Superior herself manifested in the shape of a human.

This particular voyage seemed to start well enough, the winds were strong but not dangerously powerful and in exactly the right direction, almost as though Superior was favoring the journey. The weather didn’t hold though, in November on Superior, it rarely does. As the day went on clouds rolled in and rain began to fall, the wind and waves built and the vessel’s progress slowed as night rolled in. For the time being, her crew was not worried, cautious and weary, but not worried. This was a typical November storm, something she had weathered and survived multiple times before, yet the night and following day would bring more rain and more harsh weather.

The storm followed the vessel overnight and all through the next day, her crew reacted as they needed to, reefing sails, covering hatches, making her as stable and keeping her hold as dry as they could. The vessel held her course and managed to continue making headway through the storm, perhaps even in spite of it, and it was not through just through her build alone that she made it as far as she had. Her crew were a determined group, as sailors tend to be. Men with steel in their spines and an unwavering drive to see the other shore, to ensure they made it home to their families and loved ones. For these men, sometimes nature, and the natural forces that can be brought to bear, can and does sometimes triumph over human determination for sometimes those forces of nature are displeased with the men of this world.

Superior had decided, because a man of this vessel did not aid her, that if she could not turn the vessel back, she would drown them all. The storm had held steady over the first day of the voyage, not one to be taken lightly but one that could be managed with a significant effort of will and skill by the vessel’s crew. As night fell on the second day of the voyage the storm began to build beyond what it had been, and kept building. Over the course of a few hours, the waves grew and were soon crashing over the railing with devastating and alarming frequency and the crew had reefed almost all the sails to prevent a capsize yet the storm continued to build and yet the crew fought on. The captain knew that this was the storm of the century and that it would kill himself, his crew, and his vessel if they could not reach shelter. The crew fought on to bring her to the shelter of the bay near what is now Copper Harbor. They never made it, as Superior had decided they wouldn’t.

The vessel sank that night somewhere outside the bay, though it was not for lack of trying that she did not make shelter. The men that made up her crew fought with everything they had to bring their ship to safety. A wreck has never been found so her exact fate is unknown but the weight of water and wind brought to bear against her by the force of the lake itself would have caused all kinds of terminal damage to the vessel. A snapped mast and a few big waves would have done it, as would damage to her steering gear. Debris in waters as turbulent as those can turn a gentle bump with a log into a slamming impact below the waterline and a hole in the hull allowing water to pour in. Whatever her fate, the legends swirl and fester still.

The local legends of Copper Harbor still hold that a ghost ship will sometimes appear outside the bay on stormy November nights, her hold full of furs and her crew fighting for a safe harbor they will never reach. Figures are visible on her deck, doing what they can to keep her afloat. Others tell of ghosts appearing in the forests outside of town, their appearances are that of drowned men in sailor’s clothes from the 1750s. Occasionally, a story will emerge of one of these ghosts looking mournfully to the lake and speaking incoherently, his tone one of pleading, his face begging. Perhaps Superior keeps these spirits out of a form of respect or in memory, for fighting so hard for a life that was forfeit almost from the moment they left the docks, a determination and drive she found impressive. Perhaps she wishes to remind them, and those still living, to respect and aid her if she asks for she can be unfathomably cruel to those who slight her. Or maybe the effort made by the men left its own ghostly impression on such a place, a place where wind, water, and earth meet and power is found in every crevice, where a living force of nature dwells, and where shades of doomed men of iron will are found often.