by David Boyle
For years, Mark had been after Hayden to keep an ear on his paddle and not bang the boat, especially in bumbfuck nowhere where wildlife might show. Sometimes he did fine, and others not, which for Mark made it all the more remarkable that Wheajo, without a word spoken, was able to keep his end of the boat quiet.
Quiet, if not exactly straight.
Mark switched sides to correct course, and was about to compliment his partner when he again noticed the two-thumbed hands working the paddle.
Impossible but true. His paddling companion was from another world!
That aliens existed Mark had taken as a given after learning as a boy that the points in the night sky were suns like his own. To Mark, the sheer numbers were enough: there had to be life on planets other than Earth. Later still, he’d learned about Drake’s equation, the first real attempt to replace guesswork with probabilities based on biological and astronomical findings. Depending on who used it, Drake’s equation supported any contention. Pessimists used it to show how improbable it was that intelligent life had ever evolved, even on earth, and that the probability of such an occurrence happening twice in one galaxy was vanishingly small; optimists to show that the Milky Way was literally teeming with life. Both positions relied on supposition, assuming answers when the realities were unknowable. To him, neither seemed to address the tenacity of life itself, and instead used an earth-centered chauvinism to support their beliefs.
The mere fact of Wheajo’s existence was, therefore, intellectually satisfying, and in any other circumstance Mark would have been elated to show the pessimists how wrong they were. In his possession were the answers to a million questions. And he’d ask them, too, but later, after they were settled. For the moment finding out how many planets harbored life was well down the priority list when compared to simply staying on course and making it around the next bend.
Mark had no misgivings about Wheajo’s intellect, and for that matter was willing to concede his was like an ant’s in comparison. But Wheajo was seriously out of his element, and like any neophyte paddler was having difficulty keeping the boat straight. And at the same time forcing him to keep changing sides.
His eyes shifted about the trees.
Keep a low profile. Try to blend in.
Yeah right.
Soldiers in the trenches of WWI—the smart ones—had learned quickly that three on a match was unhealthy. Here, switching sides seemed little different. However well executed, flipping a paddle across the boat involved a lot more movement than arms shifting back and forth. A sniper then or a dinosaur now, catching either’s attention could end one’s life in a hurry.
They stroked around the curve, the high banks at last closing the door on the dinosaur crossing. The other canoes were nearly a mile ahead, and after holding short of the next bend were moving again now that they’d cleared the turn.
“Yeah, we’re still back here,” Mark grumbled. “Nice of them to wait, huh?”
“One can only presume they have confidence in your abilities.”
“You give them more credit than they deserve. And with them having all the firepower, I’d gladly trade some confidence for a little less separation.” Mark scanned the trees along the embankments, then glanced at the sky. “About the best thing we have going is this sun,” he said, reaching overboard and rinsing the scratches on his arm. “Least now everybody seems to be bedded.”
The boats vanished around the bend. “Your friend,” Wheajo said. “Does he often want to blow someone’s brains out?”
“McClure? Na…. He just wanted to get your attention. He was angry and looking for answers. Extreme? Sure, but then the same can be said about our situation. Just don’t tie yourself up about it. Give him time and he’ll be okay. Ron is really a good guy to have around in a pinch.”
“In a pinch?”
“A bind, or a tight situation.” Wheajo nodded. “And while we’re on the subject,” Mark said, unbuckling his fanny pack. “Go ahead and untie those ropes. You’re my bowman now, and I need you mobile.” Mark fumbled through his fanny pack, found a zip-lock bag with his cigars, and lit up. He puffed out a smoke ring, his thoughts shifting as the ring swirled in the hot muggy air. He was in a huge auditorium and his gas dynamics professor was summarizing his lecture. ‘Old vortices never die… they simply fade away through viscosity.’ It was an odd recollection, though it did make him smile. He’d forgotten most everything he’d learned in that and other classes, but not that line. Funny how some things take root, and others don’t.
Mark sighed. Not that it mattered.
Wheajo held up the rope.
“Just stuff it under the tarp. And if there’s anything else in your way up there, get that out of there too. It’s time we got down to business.”
Mark and Wheajo practiced over the miles that followed—sweeps, braces, eddy turns—and on the rare occasions when the banks were clear, spun the canoe in circles, paddled it backwards. Even sideways once, upstream and against the current. Wheajo was an excellent student, and Mark was pleased with his progress. Still, there was only so much anyone could learn in a single lesson. Moreover, there was a world of difference between knowing and doing. Theory and execution. Proficiency and timing were learned only through experience.
“That was good.” Mark steered to river center. “Having more of a current would sure make this easier, but you are getting the idea.” Thick brush and an increasing number of trees had long since replaced the canes, and with the shoreline vegetation ever on the increase, Mark scanned left and Wheajo right in what had become a post-maneuver routine. “Clear?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then let’s try for the eddy behind that log. And this time don’t be so skittish about clipping the thing on your way past. It’s the backside current that does most of the work, so you… need….” Mark craned up from his seat.
A red slash eased slowly from behind the trees at the bend.
“What do you know? We’ve either gotten a whole lot faster, or there’s something in the boat they need.”
*****
“So… how’s Whojo working out?” Ron asked, minutes later when Mark and Wheajo coasted alongside.
“Better than most, actually. And nice of you guys to finally wait up. What, you run out of beer?”
“Stay calm,” Hayden said. “It’s not like we haven’t been keeping an eye on you. You were probably too busy to notice.”
“Yeah, well… you got the busy part right.”
“We really were,” Tony said. “Honest.”
Mark plucked the cigar from his teeth, “Uh huh,” and spit out a splinter. “So, what’s the deal?”
Ron tipped his head downriver. “There’s a rapid around the curve. An eighth of a mile, something like that. A ledge best I can tell. Doesn’t sound like much,” he added, casting a doubtful eye at Wheajo. “But we thought you might, you know, need a hand.”
Charlie was hunched on what was rightfully Mark’s seat, his eyes roaming the floodplain where thickets of trees and brush offered excellent cover for whatever was out there.
Mark crunched down on the soggy stub of his Hav-a-Tampa. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
Ron and Tony pulled into the lead. “Keep your eyes peeled if you haven’t already. It gets real woodsy from here on down.”
Eyes searched beyond the greenery spilling along the bank as the canoes slipped toward and around the curve. The broken assemblage on river left was changing quickly to forest; the floodplain opposite awash with palms and a stunning array of immense ferns that over the next quarter mile began mingling with what looked like hardwoods.
“No shit woodsy. Finding camp is not going to be easy.”
“You shoulda thought of that, Bennett, instead of fuckin’ around like you were. Sun goes down… then what? We sleep in the damn boats?”
“I’m sorry if we held up your parade, Bull. But in case you hadn’t noti—”
“Guys, let’s not, okay?” Hayden sighed. “Ther
e’s enough going on without having to listen to you guys bitch. And if you wanted to make better time, Bull, you should have said something.”
“We coulda been here sooner is all I’m sayin’.”
The Tripper had opened a fifty-yard gap, Tony now with his paddle feathered and Ron standing in back. He looked to the boats trailing and pointed to the logjam piled across the bay.
“Wonder what that’s all about.”
“They closin’ on the rapid, ya think?”
Hayden leaned forward, listening. “Could be. I think I can hear it.”
Mark craned up. “Always makes me uneasy when I can hear the thing before I see it. Wheajo, hold it steady,” he said, and got to his feet. Tony was doing a slow back stroke not far from a line of intermittent froth. “Looks like McClure pegged it. River-wide, best I can tell.”
“Any bumps after?” Hayden asked.
“We’re too far. But I don’t think so.” Mark settled when Ron waved them ahead. “Prentler, you first. Wheajo, I hope you’re ready for this.”
“As am I.”
The bay yawned around the point where huge willows stood clustered alongshore, a thick tangle of undergrowth spilling from the shadows and down the bank. In the water alongshore was what looked like eel grass, the stuff near shore noticeably greener than the stuff deeper down. “Like I told ya,” Charlie said, cruising past. “River’s up from where it normally is.”
Hayden nodded, “Looks like it,” then turned to the logjam ahead. “And by the size of those trunks, it can get a lot higher.” Weathered gray and jammed into the trees by what had to have been massive flooding, the shattered trunks had been accumulating for decades at least. Hayden could only guess how big they were, but couldn’t remember seeing anything nearly as big growing along the river. “Wonder how far upstream they came from?”
“Is kinda funny the way they’re piled up there….” Charlie took a stroke, hesitated, then leaned forward, staring.
Hayden waited. “See something?”
“Could be.” Charlie turned on his seat, pointing. “See that hole in the willows? There’s a dark spot past the logjam that I’m thinkin’ could be a channel.”
Hayden searched the tree line. “All I see is shadows. But just in case, we should probably check it.” Hayden called out. “McClure….” Ron looked back. “Charlie thinks there’s a channel back a ways along that shore. Be worth a look if it is.”
“Sure thing,” Ron replied. “Which way?”
“Go right once you get close to shore,” Charlie yelled. “Should spot it before you go a hundred yards.”
Ron stretched up, staring. “Okay. Sit tight and we’ll get back to you.”
Ten minutes later and the two of them were still at it, Ron half in a crouch, pointing. “What’s takin’ so friggen long? It’s there or it isn’t,” Charlie grumbled. “They don’t start paddlin’ in the next coupla minutes, I say we head on over and check for ourselves.”
A fish leaped nearby, the body flashing silver in the instants before splashing down. “Whoa, that was a nice one!” Hayden said, watching the expanding ripples. “Looks like we’ll get a chance to get some fishing in after all.”
Charlie came around. “We don’t even have a place to stay and you’re thinkin’ about fishin’? I tell ya this, Prentler, those shadows make it across the river we’re gonna have a hell of a lot more to worry about than fish.”
Hayden sighed. “Sorry, just thinking out loud is all.” He glanced at Mark, and across the bay noticed that Ron and Tony were heading back. “Finally.”
“Well?” Charlie asked.
“I don’t know how you spotted it, but you were right about the channel. We even found a spot with water trickling in from the hillside. It’s a good ten degrees colder than this, so I’m guessing it’s from a spring.
“Main thing is, it’s got a current. Tony said I was hearing things, but I could have sworn I heard gurgling. However that goes, I think we found our island.”
“So we’re stayin’?”
“As far as I’m concerned we are,” Ron said, letting the canoe drift. “Woods are dense as hell, so if and when we do find a spot, setting up camp could end up being a serious kick in the nuts.”
“That we found a place is all I care about.” Charlie put his hands together. “Thank you, Lord.”
Hayden had to smile. “I guess I’ll take some of that.”
“Okay, so it’s an island,” Mark said. “But from what I’m hearing, just barely. How wide is that channel and can we get the boats through?”
“Not unless you packed a chain saw. It’s a good boat or maybe two wide, but with all the deadfalls and crap alongshore, I can’t see any way of ever making it through.”
Mark seemed resigned. “If you say so.”
“Trust me. The back door is closed and the only way down is left and over.”
Mark could see a sandy patch where the rock creating the rapid burrowed into the far shore. “We could portage around,” he said to Wheajo.
“Relax already,” Hayden said with a chuckle. “This is a pussy cat you could do in your sleep. We’ve run bigger rapids than this backward.”
“Uh huh. You and me. But I’m in this boat, and you’re in mine.”
“You guys figure out what you’re doing,” Ron said. “We’re leaving.”
“Us too,” said Charlie, and powered forward.
“You coming?” Hayden asked over his shoulder.
Mark eyed what was left of his cigar. “Just find us a slot without bumps.”
Tony was ready, the hiss growing louder as the Tripper neared the drop. “This is… uh… a way bigger drop than we thought, McClure.”
“We can handle it. Just watch we don’t hit anything.”
“I’m watching, I’m watching.” Tony’s fists tightened on the paddle as the current gained speed. The Tripper slid along the tongue, nicked a rock and nosed down sharply. Water burped in, the canoe wobbling for a second before leveling out. Tony scooted back onto his seat. “You were right. That was easy.”
Ron twisted around—“This one or that one, Prentler, take your pick”—then turned to study the high right bank.
“We going to wait?”
“No, we’re not. Just go.”
The Discovery banged sideways, Charlie bracing as water poured briefly in over the port gunnel, Hayden ruddering the stern. “That’s at least a two-footer,” Mark said as they powered through the froth at the bottom. “You saw the water they took?”
“Yes,” Wheajo said.
“That’s why you’re on your knees, and why I want you to stay there.”
“As you explained earlier.”
For a guy who hadn’t been in whitewater before, Wheajo was surprisingly calm for a first timer. Hayden and Charlie spun the Discovery around, both on cue twirling their paddles. “Showoffs!” Mark shouted.
Hayden smiled and, while Charlie bailed, jockeyed the Discovery over. A few swipes was all he needed, after which Charlie held the handle end of his paddle up.
“Keep an eye on that. We go where Charlie tells us.” Mark went to his knees and nudged the boat forward. “And don’t paddle until I tell you.”
Wheajo nodded, his paddle hovering above the water.
They drifted forward over what with a foot less water would surely be a rock garden, dark hulks slipping ever faster under the boat. Fuzzy white plumes showed beyond the drop, the river splintering on the rocks. A screech along the hull started the boat turning. Wheajo reached out. “Forget it,” Mark said, correcting. “A little further… almost there.” The river fell away, hissing. “Now!” he barked, and powered forward, Wheajo barely finishing a stroke when the boat nicked a rock that knocked the alien nearly off his seat.
Waves splashed along the gunnel, the canoe shuddering through the swirls while Mark guided the Rockfinder clear of the boulders.
“Like I said, this one you could do in your sleep.” Hayden checked along the rapid for alternative routes. “Wa
s a little on the bony side, but not a bad drop, considering.”
“Guess I did kind of overreact. You got much water up there, Wheajo?”
“And what, may I ask, constitutes ‘much water’?”
Charlie craned over the side. “You got a coupla gallons. He can bail while you paddle. We need to keep movin’.”
Mark reached for the stub of his cigar. “You might try easing off a little there, Van Dyke. We’re here, okay?”
Charlie stroked ahead. “Prentler, you gonna paddle or what?”
Mark picked splinters from the mouthpiece, watching as Hayden and Charlie sped away. Hav-a-Tampas didn’t burn all that long, but chewing them was easier on the teeth. This one was headed for double duty. “And my wife keeps yapping about how I get up tight.”
“Fear can manifest in many guises,” Wheajo said.
“Yeah, well, he needs to learn how to cope.”
The river had at least doubled in speed, with upwelling currents swirling along the surface. For long minutes Ron and Tony had been searching for an out, the bank throughout an unbroken wall of hard-packed soil that in places rose eight feet above the river.
“How long is this thing?” Ron wondered aloud.
Tony twisted half around. “I don’t know, but we’ve already gone a good eighth of a mile.”
