“Here, maybe,” Alyssa said. “But on the Mackenzie? No way. Huge waves. Swamp even a jetboat.”
“So then … we wait it out,” Morris said. “They’ll come when—”
“There’s one more little thing,” I said. “Our island’s shrinking fast.”
Without a tent the night before, we’d crammed ourselves under the canoe to sleep. I’d actually felt pretty snug in there—until I woke up and heard how much closer the river sounded. The shore that had saved us the day before had been flushed downstream.
“That’s bullshit,” Morris said.
I stood up and brushed the sand off my legs. “No, Morris. You didn’t notice?”
“Prove it.”
I showed him the gouged-out shoreline by the canoe. We took a quick walk around the island and discovered that more big hunks had disappeared, even since we’d got up.
“Holy shit,” is all Morris said when he saw the destruction.
So Plan B it was.
Our carving project did not go well.
“I say we go with the one paddle,” Morris announced.
Morris sat back on his hands, surrounded by wood chips, glaring at our second attempt. We’d discovered that the driftwood was packed with sand, which dulled the hatchet blade with every blow. Just when he had something that began to look like a paddle, the handle broke.
“There could be more rapids ahead,” I said. “One person steering a loaded boat couldn’t—”
“Fuck the rapids,” Morris said. “We can line ’em if we have to. Portage ’em. Whatever. Let’s go.”
“There’s no more rapids,” Alyssa said. “Not now, anyway.”
Morris and I both turned to her. “How do you know?” I said.
“I’ve been here before.”
“This shitty little island?” Morris said.
“No. But around here. My granddad took us moose hunting as far as Red Dog once.”
“Red Dog?” I said.
Alyssa pointed to an unimpressive hill half-shrouded by low clouds. “Red Dog Mountain.”
“What’s so special about it?” I asked.
“Supposed to be a big scary dog up there.”
I thought of the Mayan stories my mother used to tell me about giant animals in the Guatemalan highlands. “You mean like a spirit animal?”
Alyssa shrugged. “Used to give people a rough time.”
“Like, eat them?” I said.
“Maybe. Or drown them. Used to be a big whirlpool that would open up if people didn’t show respect. Didn’t make some kind of offering.”
“Like paying the water with tobacco,” I said, “the way William showed us?”
“Yeah, I guess. Some people leave matches, maybe shoot off a few bullets as they go by.”
Morris chucked the half-carved paddle in the river. “Enough bullshit. Let’s get out of here.”
I stood up and studied an even darker bank of clouds, creeping toward us from upriver. I licked my finger and checked the wind. It had swung around, now coming from the north. I noticed that the willow leaves were all “ass up,” as William would say. Not good. The river seemed higher, faster, greedier. We’d lost about a quarter of the island since we’d landed.
I could feel William by my side as I inspected the elements, seeing things that would have been invisible to me before I met him.
I imagined Obie looking up through his thick glasses and rhyming off the names of clouds. Oberon, King of the Fairies.
I thought about Woody, wondering what he’d do if he was marooned on this island.
And Carrie. Boy, how I could’ve used some of her TLC right then.
I sure hope those guys are okay.
“I still think we’d be better off with two paddles,” I said. “And look at that sky. You want to launch in this?”
Morris winged the hatchet at a log near my bare feet. It stuck in perfectly, like he did this all the time. I stared at the hatchet, wondering if he used such talents on the street while pushing drugs.
“Your turn, then,” Morris said. “Three strikes and we’re outta here.” He stomped over to the canoe, pulled out Carrie’s snack barrel, and started rifling through it for choice goodies. I opened my mouth to say something about food rationing but, given his present mood—like an overwound guitar string—I decided against it.
Alyssa withdrew back into her fetal cave and took her smile with her.
Our team was fraying at the edges.
FIRE
The storm cloud moved over us like a giant black spaceship. I’d been hacking away at another paddle for hours. Morris paced the island like a caged bear. Alyssa had curled up under the canoe.
I don’t know if it was that cloud or that thing they call night—something I hadn’t seen since coming north—but it was getting too dark to work safely. I decided to dedicate a couple of our precious matches to a bonfire. Might cheer things up a bit, too.
The wind had other ideas and, a dozen matches later, I called Morris over to give me some cover.
“You cold or something?” Morris said.
“Did you maybe notice it was getting dark?”
Morris looked up at the ominous sky. “Weird, eh? You forget.”
“So much for the midnight sun,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“If we can just get this fire going, I can finish this thing and—”
“We’re outta here!”
Morris huddled closer, sheltering me from the wind with his great bulk.
The wood crackled. We had a fire. The flames jumped from log to log. They jumped into me.
“Why did you do it?” I asked.
“Do what?”
“That pedophile thing.”
Morris leapt back like I’d thrust a flaming stick in his face. “It was … just a joke. Can’t you take a little joke?”
“It almost killed me, Morris.” I was suddenly yelling. “Almost fucking killed me!”
“It’s not my fault you took it so damn serious.” Morris picked up a piece of driftwood the size of a baseball bat.
“And that video.”
“What video?”
“You know fucking well what video. My dog getting creamed by a Coke truck!”
“Hey, I just happened to … I thought maybe the police or somebody might—”
“BULLSHIT! You just had to post that, didn’t you! DIDN'T YOU? On MY blog! Was that a fucking joke, too? WAS IT?”
Morris gripped the driftwood tighter.
Then I was crying. Bawling. Face in my hands. “I’m sorry, Loba … I’m sorry, girl … I’m so sorry.”
A bolt of lightning suddenly turned the whole valley to ice. Half a second later, an ear-splitting CRACK of thunder.
I jerked my head up. Where’s Morris? Vaporized by the lightning?
For a second, I wondered if God took him. Straight to Hell, I hope!
The fire sizzled in time with the first raindrops. Then buckets fell and killed it.
I dove for the canoe. A flash of lightning showed two pairs of legs sticking out of it. “Lemme in!” I yelled as another thunderclap ripped the sky open.
STORM
I’d heard the river’s many tongues, whispering, humming, laughing. The wind that night seemed to have only one voice. Screaming at the top of its lungs.
During the odd lull, when it seemed the sky was inhaling for another blast, I could hear the splash and gurgle of collapsing banks all around us, as the rising flood bit off big hunks of sand and carried them away. The shrieking wind and pounding rain made it impossible to sleep, to talk, to do anything but lie there under the canoe and wait for the end.
The end of the storm or the end of our island. Whichever came first.
Alyssa was curled into a tight ball under the middle of the canoe. We’d found only one sleeping bag in our gear and she was buried under it. Morris and I were crammed in at either end of the canoe. I think we instinctively placed ourselves that way as if on suicide watch. Alyssa seemed more uptight
after spilling that red dog story, and there was no telling what she might do. Whenever the wind threw an extra big fist at us, she’d moan or squeal or shout something crazy like, “Not now!” or “I’m not ready!” or “Soon! Soon!”
I’m no therapist, but that kind of talk did not sound healthy.
After a few hours of this, I was ready for a little therapy myself.
I felt like parts of me were being whittled away by the raw power of the storm. I couldn’t shake this gnawing feeling that there was something more at play here, more than wind and rain and river. Something pressing down on us, listening, watching, waiting for our next move.
I pulled in my arms, covered my face, hugged my knees to my chest. I adopted Alyssa’s favorite escape pose but it didn’t help. Inside, I was trembling from the truth that my life had no more meaning or purpose than the grains of wet sand I was lying on. And, like the sand, my life could be swept away just as easily.
“Hey, Ian!”
Morris’s shout hit me like a slap in the face.
“What?” I yelled.
“You got any of that tobacco?”
I stuck my head out in the rain to see his face. A distant flash of lightning showed me he was scared, too. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“No, ya dumb shit. To … you know.”
“Right,” I yelled. “To make an offering. Pay the water.”
“Yeah. That.”
“William’s got the tobacco pouch.”
“Too bad.”
More fists of wind.
“Hey, but Morris,” I yelled.
“What?”
“I don’t think a carton of Players would help.”
“Yeah, maybe not.”
More thunder. I started pulling my head under the canoe when I heard another shout.
“Ian!”
“What now?”
“I’m sorry.”
I stuck my head out again and turned my face to the rain, letting it wash away a sudden gush of tears.
“Ian?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Thanks, Morris.”
THE OFFERING
I’m in my practice room below the domed skylight, hugging my zebrawood guitar. I move my hands to ready position and take a deep breath. I strum an open D minor, the chordal home of “Capricho Arabe.” My guitar shivers with delight. So do I. I get the beat going in my head and lightly pluck the first harmonic at the seventh fret.
A few bars in, I hear a noise behind the door. Along the crack of light below it, I see the shadow of shoes tapping in time with my music.
I freeze.
Just let me play, Dad! Just let me play how I want!
I see a third shadow on the polished marble floor. The tip of Uncle Faustus’s cane.
“Venga, tío, venga. Come in, Uncle!”
Uncle Faustus slowly opens the door and limps over to me, his face beaming. He grips my shoulder with one hand and flicks the strings of my guitar with the other. “Prométeme,” he says—promise me. “Nunca renunciar a la música!”
Never give up the music.
I reach out to him, to seal my promise with a handshake, when Loba jumps up from her sheepskin rug. She puts her front paws on my lap, throws her head back, and starts howling up a storm. It’s her singing howl, the happy one I taught her. She’s inviting me to keep playing. Keep playing. Her howl goes on and on, filling my practice room, gliding out the window, harmonizing with the wind … the wind …
I bend over to nuzzle Loba’s neck but recoil when I feel it’s all wet and cold …
I woke to find my face buried in a soaked sleeping bag.
With no one in it.
“Alyssa!”
I leapt to my feet, knocking the canoe over and pinning one of Morris’s arms.
“What the fuck?” he shouted. He stood up, ready to slug me.
“Alyssa’s gone!”
My jaw dropped when I saw how much of the island got swept away overnight. The river had eaten more than half of it and now the wind, which seemed stronger than ever, wanted to blow away the rest. It had already stolen our orange rescue tarp. And our canoe, which we’d carefully placed in the center of the island, was now almost in the river.
My eyes scoured what was left of the driftwood piles, the willows.
“Where is she?” Morris yelled.
I ran past him toward the other end of the island. I found her sandals, Teen Wolf T-shirt, and jean shorts. Then her bra and panties.
I ran faster.
There! Off the downstream tip of the island, up to her waist in the galloping river.
I stopped for a second, thinking she might just be enjoying an early morning skinny dip, like we did sometimes in the mountains on the hottest mornings. But there was a bloody gale trying to knock her over, and her body language said this was no skinny dip.
“Alyssa!”
She didn’t look back.
“ALYSSA!”
I heard Morris panting beside me. “What the fuck is she up to now?”
“Come on!” I yelled, running straight into the icy water.
“Leave me!” she shouted and waded in deeper. “It’s okay.”
A couple more steps and the river will take her.
“It’s not okay!” I yelled. “What are you doing?”
“Did you hear it last night?”
“What?”
“The howling.”
“Yeah … I mean, no … I don’t know! Grab my hand!”
“Red dog,” she said, wading further. “Needs it … An offering … It’s okay.”
The current tore around her, tried to lift her. She was almost afloat.
“Not you, Alyssa! We can offer something else.”
She turned to me defiantly, so beautiful in her nakedness, so proud. “Like what?”
“I don’t know … chocolates … whatever. Don’t do this, Alyssa!”
I lunged for her arm, losing one of my legs to the current, and almost fell in. It took all my strength to get back on two feet. I looked at Morris, who stood on the shore, paralyzed by fear. “For Christ’s sake, give me a hand, Morris!”
Alyssa inched further into the current.
“NO!” I yelled and I lunged again, this time clamping onto her hand.
The combined resistance of our bodies against the current was too much for me. “MORRIS!”
“It’s really okay,” Alyssa said, struggling to untangle her hand from mine.
I felt a sudden drag on my arm. She had lifted both feet off the bottom and was now drifting free.
Alyssa was about to drag me downriver with her.
Then I felt Morris’s hand clutch my other arm and he hauled us both to shore.
Alyssa slumped to the sand, sobbing.
“Watch her!” I shouted and sprinted back toward the canoe for the sleeping bag.
Above the howling wind I heard a hollow thump and a splash.
¡Jesucristo! It’s gone!
I got to our campsite just in time to see our red canoe bobbing merrily down the Keele River, right side up, on its final journey to the Mackenzie.
TEAM CAPTAIN
“Now we’re truly fucked,” Morris said.
I threw another chunk of driftwood on the fire. “Hey, at least we’ve got—”
“Each other!” Morris said, spitting out the words.
“Guess we won’t need that extra paddle now,” I said.
Alyssa stuck her face out from the sleeping bag. Her hair was still caked with sand. “If you’d only let me …”
Her eyes locked on something upstream.
I followed her gaze to a mob of ravens, hovering over a knot of logs that had piled up against the island during the storm. “What, Alyssa?”
“Ravens.”
“Got it,” Morris said. “Ravens. So what? You gonna eat ’em?”
“There’s something there,” she said.
“Watch her,” Morris said as he jumped up to investigate.
He climbed over the logs then ra
ised his hands. “Holy shit! Breakfast!”
We both got up to have a look. I let Alyssa go ahead of me so she couldn’t try any funny business.
It was two bull moose, their antlers locked together, their impossibly long legs wedged between the logs. “¡Dios mío!” I said. “Must’ve drowned in the flood last night. But two of them?”
“It happens,” Alyssa said softly. “Never seen it, but it happens.”
“What happens?” I asked.
“The bulls get all horny once night comes back. Fight each other for a mate. Bash heads. Sometimes they get stuck together.”
“Holy shit,” Morris said again.
Alyssa stared at the two dead moose. She looked like a little kid beside them. I couldn’t believe how big they were.
What strange creatures.
“We’re good now,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Morris said.
“Our offering.”
“Two dead moose?”
Alyssa dropped to her knees and pulled her sleeping bag tight. “Yeah. And, like, what we can do with them.”
“Like eat them?” Morris said.
“Do you think the meat’s safe?” I said, looking at Alyssa like she was now team captain.
“Yeah, probably. Only been dead a few hours. But that’s not what I mean.”
Morris kneeled beside her. “Well, then, what the hell do you mean?”
“We can go home now.”
My stomach clenched. “Now don’t start that kind of talk again.”
“No … I’m okay.” Alyssa looked back at what was left of our gear, the stuff I couldn’t lash to the canoe last night in all the wind and rain. “Do we still have the hatchet?”
“Yup,” Morris said.
“The clothesline, sewing kit, your buck knife, Ian?”
I slapped my pants pocket where I kept my knife, where I used to keep my iPhone. “Carrie’s barrel went with the canoe,” I said. “But, yeah, we’ve got all that.”
Alyssa gazed up at Red Dog Mountain then down at the moose. Her face softened. A faint but knowing smile stole across it.
That smile.
TULITA
It wasn’t until we were partway down the Mackenzie River that the clouds finally lifted and the chopper found us. It circled over us again and again while we waved our hand-carved paddles. As it hovered nearer, checking us out, I saw a flash of white in the rear passenger window.
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