Liana once again pulled the knife from its sheath and raised it to the light. Its blade glinted in the sun and she thought about her father. She examined the elaborate engraved filigree along the back of the blade and the odd bumblebee locking mechanism. Napoleon’s golden bee seemed out of place in this desolate spot. “What would Papa think of this?” she asked herself.
Liana coveted this knife, her only connection to her family, and a quick passage to so many memories. It was only a simple Laguiole folding knife, the kind one could purchase at almost any outfitters’ shop in France. This simple little knife now held her fate and Liana was grateful to have it on her waist. She turned and in the shadowy gloom she studied the bloody bit of flesh on the rock. It was white and coated in dried blood. The sun almost reached the log and Liana closed her eyes and rested. Her breath was laboured and her wounded hip was pounding and sore. She pressed the honeybee, slowly folded the blade, and slid the gleaming knife back into its sheath.
The raven’s throaty song filled the gloom. “Ravens aren’t anything like magpies,” thought Liana. Magpies are always in search of the next shiny object to add to their stores. Magpies collect anything twinkling and bright and painstakingly knit tinsel into the sticks and grasses of their nests. “Even when ravens eat garbage they seem stately,” she thought. Liana smiled as she remembered the cleverness of a constable stealing dog food. A single raven bounced near the bowl to taunt the dog, and when he chased the annoying bird several others would swoop down for a meal. “Ravens create opportunities. They’re clever,” she thought.
Liana thought about the events that had landed her on the little island. The improbability of her surviving this series of events animated her. She felt lucky and damned at the same time. She considered this thought throughout the day with frustration and awe. There seemed only one way for her to escape the island, and it was a long shot at best.
The little island and her impossibly long wait bored her. A good book would be almost more welcome than a juicy steak dinner. She stared distantly into the forest, scrutinizing its subtleties. She gazed at the gravel and sand and considered the possibilities of where it had originated. The glassy black rocks must be from a volcano, she thought, and she turned her eyes up at the hills to search for a caldera that did not exist, at least not within sight of the island. Aside from the massive stranded log, there were only rocks and sand and gravel on the island. Liana’s hands craved holding something that wasn’t a mineral.
Rarely did she allow herself to think about food, as the mere thought made her hunger all the more agonizing. Instead she tried to think about the people and places she knew. She tried to remember the words of songs. Sometimes she thought of Henry. Often she thought about her parents, particularly her father. She thought about what he would think if he knew she had cut herself with his knife—the knife he had said resembled her mother in its beauty and elegance.
Liana lay under the log, crouched in her lair. She looked at its silvery surface in close detail. The log was at least a hundred years old. It was missing most of its bark and all of its branches, except for one thick stub of an arm at the top of the log. One day it would be washed off the island in a flood. The log would bob and roll in the current, swept downstream for hundreds of miles. Rocks and branches would stretch out their tentacles to claw at it, delay it. If it didn’t get hung up on another gravel bar or in a logjam by the time it reached the sea, only a few splinters of wood would remain. Liana touched the log and felt its weathered grey sheen. She closed her eyes and rested for what felt like a long time. When she reopened them the sun was hidden behind dark clouds. The grim sky lit the forest in a sullen monochrome. The pine and spruce trees were cloaked in a dark, lifeless hue. Leafless willow and birch crowded the river on both sides. The flat light was so dim it could not produce a single shadow.
Beneath the log, Liana felt snuggled up to a silent sister, buffered from the harshness of the island. At eighteen, Liana was a compact figure, not very tall and with a slight build. Her light brown hair was wiry and usually worn in a single braid. Despite her father’s opinion of her, she felt she had plain features. Although she was lean and fit from years of active living, her hands bore no calluses. She could hike endlessly without tiring and could climb a tree as quickly as a squirrel.
Liana loved walking and reading Wordsworth, Emerson, and Thoreau. Her favorite poem was “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.” Liana liked Wordsworth’s idea that everything was connected. It was reassuring. Besides, daffodils were her favorite flower. But Liana thought about Wordsworth little these days. The sublime didn’t exist on this cheerless island. Instead, Liana knew her survival depended on rational decisions and luck.
When she wasn’t floating in her dreams or soundlessly moving her lips to the words of the poems and songs she knew, Liana considered her escape from the island. Escape was a thought that was never far away. And this day while leaning on her hand over the wound to stop the bleeding, the thought of escape filled her. She was optimistic that her luck would change and that opportunity would present itself. She imagined the ice spanning the gap between the island and the shore and carefully stepping across a frozen crystal bridge. Once on the shore she would follow the river downstream to town.
The day had never awakened, though Liana felt more alive than she had in days. The knife had proved to her that she was alive. The pain of slicing her flesh resonated through her soul. She felt the horrible intensity of the knife cutting through her delicate skin. She felt a charge of energy from the glint of steel as it crossed her hip twice. It was a grim thought, but one that woke her up and invigorated her. She had hatched a plan and had carried it out without wavering. “Henry should be proud,” she thought.
Liana dreamed of being able to hibernate just long enough to awaken to the river already frozen. She would rise in the twilight and slowly trudge through the snow, over the thickened ice and away from the barren island. If she could conserve her energy, slow her breathing and her heart, she could wake in a few weeks when the ice bridged the gap. Liana huddled deep into her jacket and pulled her legs up close to her chest. She held the sock hard against the wound. It would take all day and most of the night for the cut to fully clot.
Liana slept fitfully but with greater hope. Taking action made her feel strong. Many times during the night Liana craned her neck and peered out from under the log at the night sky, excited that she would soon be fishing. The clouds of stars and intense blackness of the night made her feel small and forgotten. Liana watched the bright constellations of Pegasus, Leo, and Orion track across the sky. The day would slowly reveal itself. The sun, a muted orange hint, would light the sky before climbing over the silhouette of mountains. The chrysanthemum brightness filled her with optimism.
The days were now shorter and only a brief reprise from the monotony of the dark. Like the other days, the orange would quickly fade and the sky would return to its usual colourless steel grey for the rest of the day. A gentle breeze would add a sting to the crispness of morning and increase her misery. Liana waited beneath the log for the air to warm, but it never did. A thick mist hovered over the river and Liana could not see the forest at all. But she knew that the ice shelf was growing; she trusted the depth of the cold and its power to make a path for her.
The raven was getting used to her presence. The big bird now sat on the opposite end of the log on the highest shaft of a frost-covered root. Its perch was no more than fifteen feet above the beach and was by far the highest point on the island. From this vantage, the raven could scour the entire island with its mysterious eyes. It was the same raven that had shrieked when Liana cut herself, she was sure. To Liana, the big bird looked sinister.
The raven shifted its weight from one leg to the other and preened its enormous wings. It was aware of Liana’s every move, though it didn’t always seem to be watching. There was intelligence in this bird, and Liana didn’t like the way it studied her. She searched its dark eyes and its dark, sharp, spear-shap
ed beak. At least song birds made wonderful calls, and water birds were enjoyable to watch. But the slyness of ravens always unsettled her. Liana thought that ravens always seemed unprepared for the North. Somehow, their featherless feet did not freeze in the deep cold. Their cartoonish calls and their communal flocks were always boisterous and loud.
The first time she saw a raven, Liana was shocked by its size. She couldn’t believe it was bigger than a chicken and still able to fly. Ravens were brave enough to torment bald eagles and many times she had seen them in pursuit. It was during the summer when eagles became restless, waiting for the spawning salmon to choke the rivers and creeks in their multitudes. A group of four or five ravens seemed to enjoy ganging up on a single eagle, pecking at its tail feathers to elicit screeching cries.
The island’s raven broke the silence with a long croak that resonated through the forest. It made sounds no animal should be able to make. Deep, guttural escapes of air mixed with rhythmic screeches and pops. Ravens could sound like a church bell or a lost kitten. In Liana’s weakened state, the raven’s calls were surreal and intimidating. She winced every time it sounded. Liana looked up at the raven’s perch on the uppermost root of the log and the raven gurgled its ethereal song.
Liana despised this bird. She had seen flocks of ravens screeching and fighting over the eyes of dead moose and caribou. Ravens were the vultures of the North. Liana knew this raven sat on its perch so that another raven wouldn’t claim Liana for itself. It wasn’t that it was merely waiting for an opportunity; the raven was greedily guarding its prize. “You’re not getting my eyes,” she promised the brooding bird. Liana felt the sharpness of the wound on her hip when she spoke. The raven tilted its head and shot a glance at Liana and then continued its preening in earnest. The raven had the luxury of time, which Liana did not. It knew winter was coming and Liana wouldn’t last.
In the soft light under the log, Liana took the frozen piece of bait and warmed it in her hand until it was soft and pliable. She slowly fed it onto a small fishhook she kept for emergencies in a leather slip in the front pocket of her jacket. Her fingertips turned red from the thawed blood. She unwound the short piece of fishing line attached to the hook and checked the knot. Her motions were slow and deliberate. Her fingers were stiff. She had no energy to waste and much to lose. Her preparations had to be perfect.
When the hook was ready, she carefully positioned herself to climb out from under the log without disturbing the snow on the stone pony-wall. As she stretched her stiffened legs and bent her torso to squirm out, she could feel her wound start to bleed. A small trickle of blood seeped from her hip as she stumbled across the ice and snow that covered the rocky beach. The rocks glistened with a coating of ice and appeared wet with the thin glaze. The sun was bright and Liana squinted at the sparkling snow and hardpan of the island.
She strode determinedly to the downstream end of the island where there was an eddy in the river. The water was clear and copper coloured and she could see to the rocky, weedless bottom. At its deepest, the river was six feet in this pool. “Perfect for grayling,” she thought. Liana thought the grayling’s enormous dorsal fin and light blue-green colouring beautiful. To her they almost looked like they could fly. She tossed the bait and hook beyond the ice shelf into the weak current. With a gentle plunk, the bait broke the glassy surface and slowly sank. Inches before it hit the bottom, she tugged on the line, fearing a snag. Liana stumbled backwards and brushed a thin layer of snow from a boulder facing the river, the sun at her back. After she settled herself on the boulder, she pulled her hat down to her brow and prepared to wait, optimistic that her suffering wasn’t in vain and soon she would have a fish.
Liana knew that the salmon had finished spawning many weeks before she washed onto the island. Salmon camps had lined the Yukon River with their nets strung along booms made of spruce logs. Fish wheels modeled on Scandinavian originals fifty feet high had slowly spun in the current, scooping salmon night and day. Massive log drying racks with bright orange salmon split down the middle squatted in the last rays of summer. Her hope was for a straggler, a salmon that was sick or weak or somehow delayed in reaching its spawning grounds. It was a big river and had to have a lot of fish in it, she thought. If not a salmon, perhaps a Dolly Varden would find her bait. Most likely, a scrawny grayling would find its way onto the hook and in an instant be on shore cut into a hundred bite-sized pieces. Liana feared weakening and drifting away in her sleep, her body washed into the river with the spring floods. She could almost feel the raven’s sharp beak pulling out her eyes, leaving grotesque, empty sockets in its wake.
Aside from the faint hum of the distant canyon and the gentle rustle of the breeze, the day was silent. Liana glanced upstream at the sentinel rock wall and thought of the horror of the rapids it contained. She wished that she had been more alert and hadn’t entered the canyon. A portage would have taken a day or two but would have assured her safety.
She pressed her wound with one hand and tucked her chin into her jacket. Hours passed and her hip burned. Flurries of snow buffeted her face and made her squint and her cheek muscles tired. Liana kept her vigil but could not see any fish. She preferred the shelter of the friendly log. Crouching next to the river left her exposed to the breeze. But catching fish could easily tip the scales of survival in her favour and help her escape this miserable place.
As the sun plunged behind the ridge Liana listlessly pulled in the line. She wound the line and carefully placed it, the hook, and the pale white bait in the leather slip and into her chest pocket. She looked into the current and searched once more for the telltale flash of a fish. She dipped her hand into the river and cupped a couple of slurps of water. It trickled down her parched throat and she felt momentarily revived, but hunger pulsed in her belly and her hip throbbed. She stood stiffly and raised her hands over her head and stretched her aching back. In the fading light she lifted her face to the brightening stars and closed her eyes. At the end of this fruitless day, Liana felt more discouraged than she had ever felt before in her life. She looked at the log in the shadowy gloom and her heart sank as she struggled with the reality of another tortuous night.
Liana scanned the great forest and its utter desolation startled her. The vastness of the dusk sky washed over her, and faint stars dotted the indigo sky. She turned and stumbled in the twilight back toward the log. As she climbed under it, the raven twisted its head and called its dreadful song one last time. She could see its throat expand and contract as the greasy notes slid from its distended beak. As Liana slid her legs underneath the log, she said in a defiant whisper “Not today.” As if he understood, the raven fell quiet and preened its wings in the fading light. A heavy veil of cold slipped down the mountainsides and poured into the valley.
In Liana’s dreams the raven perched on a polished walnut armoire in her childhood bedroom. The raven tried to steal her silver hairbrush but it had difficulty picking it up and was unable to fly out her bedroom window. Instead it flapped around her room, knocking dolls and books from their shelves. Liana caught a framed photograph of her grandmother before it hit the floor. Wolves bared their teeth from the open window. Liana tried to shoo the raven out her window by waving her hands and shouting. Instead, the raven flew into her closet where it started shredding her Sunday dress with its dagger-sharp beak. The wolves howled. Liana lay on her bed and covered her ears and closed her eyes until the raven stopped its rampage and the wolves wandered away.
The next morning sunlight pierced the entrance of Liana’s chamber beneath the log. She lifted her shirts and jacket to check the cut. Despite being red and angry, it was starting to heal. Liana was surprised the wound was looking so good. She prodded gently on the skin around the cut and felt its sharpness. Reassured, Liana pushed her tangled hair off her forehead and carefully climbed out from beneath the log without disturbing the snow covering the pony wall. In the brightness she was surprised by how much the island had changed. In the last week it had gained a
lmost a foot of snow. In the distance Liana could see that the ice shelf had grown as well.
Liana had come to yearn for morning, when she would fill her belly with water. It felt good to feel the sensation of fullness, even if it was only water. Her mouth frequently salivated and often she thought of hunger, her constant companion, for uninterrupted hours. Like a campfire left to burn down in the night, Liana could feel her essence begin to fade. She thought about herself as mere embers and hoped when the opportunity to escape arose she would have the strength to resurrect herself.
She held the leather slip with the frozen bait, hook, and line like a treasure. There was no turning back. She thought that she shouldn’t let her bad luck of the previous day discourage her. She once again took up her silent fishing vigil like a young novitiate assigned to pray continuously. Weakening, her muscles growing slack, her waistband growing loose, Liana was clumsier each day she remained on the island. She pulled her arm back and tossed the line into the silent current. It made a small plunk and then the transparent line sank into the eddy until it was hidden under the ice shelf. The line wasn’t long enough for her to sit on the rocks. Instead she crouched on the ice with an arm outstretched toward the river. She wondered if she was alert and strong enough to pull in a fish if she hooked one.
She threw the rig into the river and then jigged the hook, moving the line back and forth around the eddy before letting it sit on the bottom. Hours passed to no avail. She didn’t even see a fish, let alone feel one at the end of her line. Before long the sun had climbed high in the sky. Much of the morning chill was gradually burned away by the weak warmth of the sun.
“Where are the fish?” she asked aloud. She had seen salmon in other rivers choking the current and turning the river crimson red with their rotting carcasses. The hook-like beaks of the disintegrating sockeye broke the surface as they crowded eddies and rested before charging the current. She would give anything to have just one salmon now—a single, half dead, molting salmon.
An Island Between Two Shores Page 5
