Lost in the Barrens

by Farley Mowat

  As they pushed off from shore Jamie felt a rising tension that almost made him sick. A moment later the bow of the canoe swung into the funnel’s mouth. The unseen hand of the river grasped the canoe as a cat grasps a mouse. The banks began to fly past at fearful speed and the canoe dipped abruptly forward into the chaos of rock and water.

  Kneeling with his legs braced against the canoe thwart, Jamie forgot everything except the wild thrill of the moment. It was like galloping bareback over a rocky slope. Dimly he heard Awasin’s hoarse shout—“Here’s the turn—watch out!” Jamie threw himself on his paddle and desperately tried to swing the bow of the canoe. A flying spume of spray engulfed the canoe so that he could see nothing of the fatal ledge ahead. Blindly he paddled, until it seemed his back would break. A rock rose suddenly out of the foam and touched the side of the canoe as lightly as a falling leaf touches the ground. The canoe slithered sideways. Instantly Jamie drove his paddle between the rock and the canoe, and pulled back on the handle. The blade snapped off, soundlessly, and he almost fell overboard. As he struggled to regain his balance the fury of the river stopped abruptly, and the canoe floated gently in an untroubled backwater below the mighty rapid.

  Still shaking with excitement, Jamie turned to look at Awasin. The Indian boy was laughing. He pointed to the broken paddle still clutched in Jamie’s hand and shouted: “Were you trying to break the rock in half?”

  Jamie grinned as he leaned back to pull the spare paddle out of the gear in the bottom of the canoe. “We made it just the same,” he said. “Not even Denikazi could have done it better!”

  Adroitly Awasin scooped up a paddle full of water and flicked it into Jamie’s face. “Breaker-of-Rocks,” he taunted. “That is your name from now on!”

  The sun stood high by then and the morning was bright and clear. Leisurely the boys paddled down the river until they reached a broad stretch where the current sank away and disappeared. As they entered this “almost-lake” a flock of male fish ducks started up in panic and went skittering away across the water. The fish ducks could not fly, for this was the time of the midsummer molt and they had lost their flight feathers. Flapping their wings furiously, they pattered over the surface like little hydroplanes.

  Jamie and Awasin were hungry and instantly took up the pursuit. The birds stretched their long necks forward in terror, and redoubled their efforts to escape until they were actually running on the surface of the water.

  When the canoe was almost upon the flock, every duck vanished as if at a given signal. Little ripples marked the dozen spots where the fish ducks had dived.

  Quickly the boys headed back upstream, for they knew that fish ducks always prefer to swim against the current. They paddled hard. A minute passed, then ducks’ heads began popping up like so many little periscopes. One was barely a yard from the canoe, and the duck was so surprised it dived at once without drawing breath.

  Jamie caught a glimpse of its sleek, fishlike shape as the broad, webbed feet propelled the bird underwater like a small torpedo. He pointed with his paddle. Awasin swung the canoe in pursuit again, and when the duck surfaced a second time the canoe was almost on top of it.

  The game—a grim one for the duck—went on for five more minutes until the bird became exhausted from lack of air. It lingered, gasping, on the surface a fraction of a second too long, and Jamie brought the blade of his paddle down expertly. A moment later he had pulled the dead duck out of the river.

  “Good hunting,” Awasin said. “Now for our breakfast.”

  Jamie was already busy plucking the bird as Awasin paddled the canoe to shore.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Rapid!

  THEY LANDED ON A STONY POINT near a valley that cradled a sparse growth of dwarf willow scrub. Jamie soon had a fire going, and while he prepared the duck for cooking, Awasin walked inland to a low ridge from which he could get a look at the country ahead.

  Off to the northeast he could see the looming bulk of the mountain they had seen from the Killing Place. Idthen-seth—Deer Mountain. Awasin wondered if Denikazi was already hunting caribou under its distant slopes.

  Awasin looked intently to the north along the line of the river, and he saw where it seemed to vanish in a maze of channels and little barren islands. There was no sign of human life. No smoke, no Eskimo kayaks. Feeling more at ease, Awasin made his way back to where Jamie had almost finished cooking breakfast.

  After plucking and gutting the duck, Jamie had split it in half and spread-eagled the carcass on two sticks. Then he had thrust a third stick up through the duck crosswise, and planted the other end in the gravel so that the bird was held at a slant over the fire. The oil from the fat duck spluttered into the embers and sent up white flames and black smoke. The smell of roasting meat made Awasin’s mouth water as he came close.

  “Hurry up!” Jamie called to him. “It will be burned black if we don’t eat soon.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it—with you cooking!” teased his friend. But all the same Awasin sank his teeth into his half of the duck with pleasure.

  A flock of herring gulls came winging downstream, caught the smell of food, and wheeled overhead. Crying harshly, they settled into the water a stone’s throw from the boys, and here they jostled each other furiously and shrieked out insults. Jamie flung them a duck bone and at once a battle began among the hungry gulls.

  Awasin paid the gulls no attention. He was staring fixedly into the pale blue dome of the sky. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and pointed upward. “Look!” he shouted.

  Startled, Jamie looked up into the hard brilliance of the sky, but he could see nothing except a distant wraith of clouds. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Ravens!” Awasin answered. “The brothers of the deer. Look, Jamie, there must be dozens of them!”

  Jamie at last picked out the tiny black dots, like specks of soot. The birds were so high up and so far away that they kept vanishing from sight.

  “I see them,” Jamie said. “But why get so excited about a few ravens?”

  Awasin looked at him. “The ravens only fly in flocks like that when the deer are moving,” he said. “A big flock of ravens leads every herd. That is why the Chipeweyans call them the deer’s brothers. Probably the herds aren’t more than twenty miles away right now.”

  It was Jamie’s turn to grow excited. “Come on then,” he shouted. “We’ll meet them down the river!”

  Jamie hurried to load the canoe and Awasin followed slowly. He stood on the shore for a moment, looking undecided and worried. “Listen, Jamie,” he said, “don’t you think it would be better if we headed back to the Killing Place? The deer will go by there soon and we could help Etzanni and Telie-kwazie make a hunt.”

  “No,” Jamie answered stubbornly. “I’m going to see the deer, and the Stone House too!”

  Awasin was deeply disturbed, but not for anything would he have admitted to Jamie that he was also a little frightened. Somewhere to the north, he knew, Eskimo eyes were probably watching that same flight of ravens and preparing for the hunt. It was obviously foolhardy to continue down the Kazon. Yet he could not bring himself to put his fears into words. Reluctantly he took his place in the stern of the canoe.

  The little lake was soon crossed, and then a few miles of swift and violent river brought them to the maze of islets and channels Awasin had seen from the breakfast camp. There was little current here and the boys threaded their way among bare, rounded islands.

  At length they emerged into another fairly narrow lake whose northern end was out of sight. Awasin anxiously scanned the shores ahead, seeking signs that other men—Eskimos—had passed this way. But all was still.

  The day had swelled into a brilliant, cloudless morning with a cool south wind blowing over the plains. To the west, the shape of Deer Mountain loomed larger and closer, so that it did not seem more than ten or fifteen miles away. Jamie noticed this and commented: “If Denikazi had come down the Kazon he could have got to Deer Mountain in half the time.�
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  Awasin let this remark pass. He knew that Denikazi had been wise. The boys were now deep into Eskimo country while Denikazi was safely to the west. “We are foolish to take the chance,” Awasin thought. And in that moment he made up his mind that no matter what Jamie thought of him, he would see to it that they went no farther than the end of the lake on which they found themselves.

  “If we don’t find that Stone House by afternoon, we turn back!” he said aloud. “We have come downstream fast enough, but going back will be another story. We’ll be lucky if we get back in less than two days.”

  Jamie recognized the note of decision in Awasin’s voice. He sighed and said, “I guess you’re right. If we don’t find the place by suppertime, we’ll call it quits.”

  And then it seemed as if the Barrens themselves decided to play on Jamie’s side. The south wind began to grow stronger and before long was strong enough to fill a sail. Jamie strung up a blanket on a paddle and the canoe fairly scudded down the lake. Even Awasin forgot his doubts in the exhilaration of flying before the rising wind.

  Within an hour the boys could see the end where the lake narrowed sharply and once again became a river. Neither boy suggested taking down the sail. In fact the lake faded almost imperceptibly into the river and the current began so slowly and easily that the boys hardly noticed it. Filled with the enjoyment of the sail, they held their course around a projecting point of land.

  As Awasin sent the canoe leaping around the point, Jamie, in the bow, gave a sudden cry of warning.

  A scant hundred yards ahead, and stretching from bank to bank, was a wild cataract. The waters leaped downhill with vicious fury, curling and boiling over hundreds of sharp granite ledges that thrust up through the foam like the blades of knives. There was no channel anywhere to be seen in that chaos of rock and water. The whole world ahead was a roaring nightmare of destruction!

  Sucked into the hungry current, the canoe was at the edge of the abyss almost before the boys could catch their breath.

  “The sail!” Awasin screamed.

  Through the roar of water Jamie could not hear, but acting instinctively he was already struggling with the blanket. In his frenzy he lost his balance; the paddle-mast tipped overboard dragging the blanket with it. The waterlogged blanket acted as an anchor and instantly began to swing the bow of the canoe around so that the boys were going down the rapid broadside on. Awasin frantically drove his paddle into the rocks in an effort to hold the stern until the bow could swing downstream again, but he could get no grip. The canoe swung more and more until it was completely broadside to the current and rushing furiously down upon the first granite ledge.

  Jamie felt a sudden jarring blow and the next instant he was flung into the cataract. His head struck an exposed rock, and he knew nothing more for a long time.

  Awasin was luckier. As the canoe crunched against the rocks like a matchbox under a hammer, Awasin managed to jump clear. He struggled for his very life against the suction of the undertow, and a few moments later he was flung over a ledge and down into an eddy where he bobbed about until he could regain his breath. Then the whirlpool carried him shoreward, flung him into a side current, and left him sprawling in the shallows of a backwater beside the bank. He was badly bruised and bleeding from a dozen deep rock cuts. But he was alive and conscious.

  His first thought was for Jamie. Getting to his knees, he turned toward the thundering river and spotted Jamie floating face up in the backwater. Forcing his shaking legs to carry him, Awasin waded out, grasped Jamie by the hair and hauled him part way up the beach.

  Driven by an instinct for self-preservation that not even the stunning suddenness of the accident could dull, Awasin turned back to where the shattered hulk of the canoe hung poised upon a fang of rock on the outer edge of the whirlpool. At any instant it might slip free and vanish into the rapids below. In it lay the only hope of life for them, and Awasin knew it. Waves of pain and nausea swept over him, but doggedly he once more waded into the water.

  The current sucked at his trembling legs. He lost his balance as he reached for the canoe. One hand clutched the broken gunwale of the vessel, and he dragged himself up to it. From then on it was a struggle of sheer will power against the brute power of the river. In a daze he fought, inch by inch, toward the shore while the waterlogged canoe tugged and hauled away from him. Several times he lost his foothold and both he and the canoe swung back toward the fatal journey. Each time he managed to arrest the progress in the nick of time. At last he felt the canoe grate against the shore. Dizziness overwhelmed him. He stumbled forward on his knees—and fainted dead away.

  CHAPTER 8

  Alone in the Wilderness

  HIGH ABOVE THE RAPIDS A HAWK soared over a darkening world.

  Suddenly he folded his wings and came gliding downward in a plunging flight that ended barely a dozen yards above the churning surface of the rapid. With wings spread wide and tail expanded like a fan, the bird checked his drop and sailed across the river. Curiously he stared down at two figures lying half on shore, and half in the water. They showed no sign of life, but the hawk nevertheless took alarm. Opening his hooked beak he screamed shrilly, then beat his way inland, gaining height until he became only a faint speck in the distant sky.

  The cry of the hawk pierced to Jamie’s mind through the haze of unconsciousness. He stirred. Shivering, he drew himself clear of the frigid water. A sharp spasm of pain shot through him as he drew his right leg up on shore. With sudden terror, he saw the roaring rapids and the smashed hulk of the canoe.

  He tried to scramble to his feet but the pain in his leg was like a burning knife, and he fell back groaning.

  “Awasin!” he cried frantically. “Awasin! Answer me!”

  Hidden from Jamie by a ledge of rock, Awasin lay only a few feet away. Jamie’s shouts roused him and he stood up dizzily. His head, bloody from a cut above the eye, appeared over the edge of the rock.

  “What are you yelling for?” he asked almost peevishly.

  Then he grinned, and limped stiffly around the rock to his friend’s side. “You didn’t think a rapid could drown me, did you?” he asked. “Why, I’m half fish. And you must be half muskrat—you were underwater long enough to grow webs between your toes! But the old canoe isn’t going to swim any more.”

  The casual way he spoke, and the relief at seeing him still alive, raised Jamie’s spirits. But the mention of the canoe brought him back to earth.

  “What’ll we do?” he asked anxiously. “I think maybe my leg’s broken. It hurts like fury. And if the canoe’s smashed, how’ll we get out of this?”

  Fear and hopelessness, combined with the pain in his leg, brought tears to his eyes.

  Jamie, who had done the leading while all went well, and who had once taunted his friend with being frightened, was now the more frightened of the two. Awasin, the cautious one who had held back from Jamie’s wild plans, seemed neither frightened nor particularly upset. His own life and the life of his people had always been filled with sudden and crushing accidents. And to survive these blows of fate the Crees had learned to waste no time worrying about what was past.

  Awasin had already grasped the situation fully. The canoe was completely wrecked. They were at least forty miles from the Killing Place and perhaps much farther. This was Eskimo country, and a dangerous place to linger. Jamie was evidently unfit to travel on foot, and probably most of the gear in the canoe was lost. The situation could hardly have been any worse. But all Awasin was considering at the moment were the ways and means to make the best of things.

  “Let’s see your leg, Jamie,” he said.

  Painfully Jamie rolled up his trouser leg. Along his shin was an ugly purple bruise and the knee was badly swollen. Awasin felt the injured leg with tender fingers. At last he looked up. “I bet it hurts,” he said smiling, “but it isn’t broken. Only bruised. You will be able to run like a caribou in a week at least.”

  He put his hands under Jamie’s arms and half d
ragged him to a more comfortable place where he could rest with his back against a rock. “You stay here,” he said, “while I see what’s left in the canoe.”

  As Jamie watched Awasin haul out the shattered canoe and start salvaging its contents, he began to feel a little better. He hoped Awasin had not noticed his tears. The matter-of-fact way Awasin went to work relieved some of the fear that had filled Jamie’s heart and he made an effort to be of help. There was a pocket of driftwood near him—a handful of dry twigs—and he dragged himself to it and was about to light a fire when he realized he had no matches.

  “Throw me the match bottle, Awasin,” he called. “We’ll have a mug of tea. That is, if there is any tea.” It was a brave attempt at a joke—but it fell dreadfully flat when Awasin replied.

  “No fire tonight. The grub box couldn’t swim—and the matches were in the box.”

  Jamie’s moment of bravery vanished. No fire and no food—these were blows too strong to bear. He gave way to a mood of self-pity.

  “You’d better leave me and walk back by yourself,” he said, and his face was working. “I got us into this. It’s my fault. You’d better leave me here.”

  Awasin looked up in amazement.

  “You must be crazy!” he replied. “Your head must have got a wallop too! Why would I leave you? In a day or two Etzanni and Telie-kwazie will probably come down the river looking for us. And if they don’t, we will walk back to their camp. We can do it as soon as your leg is better.”

  Awasin turned brusquely back to his work. He began to sort out the pile of water-soaked gear. Only one rifle had survived, but there were almost a hundred shells for it. There was a hatchet, the tea-billy, a frying pan, blankets, some deerskin robes, a fishline, part of a fish net and some other oddments of camp equipment. One of the paddles, broken at the blade, had washed up on shore nearby. The tracking line, used for hauling the canoe up rapids, had remained tied to the bow thwart, and Awasin salvaged the fifty feet of half-inch rope.