by David Boyle
Mark worked the painter around the log, took up the slack, and with both feet back in the boat, looped the thing twice more with the rope. “Let’s try it and see how we do.” The line went taut, the hull thumping softly against the log. “Got a lane to shoot through?”
Charlie crouched. “It’s tight… but yeah, I think I can sneak it in there.”
Mark took up his paddle. “Okay, time to see what you can do.”
The branch they were after was sloshing a yard or so from the bank, the leaves of what could have been another one swirling to the surface a few yards downstream. Charlie stowed his paddle, then slipped on his shooting glove and unhooked the bungee cords. He dragged his bow from under the thwarts, then pulled his makeshift fishing arrow from the quiver and nocked it to the string.
“Doesn’t present much of a target, does it?”
“Keep her steady and I’ll let you know.”
The shot was right, and Charlie was right handed, which meant he had to be facing aft to shoot. He checked the overhangs, then got to his feet and baby-stepped half around while Mark steadied the canoe. Calm water shooting was never a sure thing; add wobbles and the chances dropped even more. But he knew what Mark was doing—even a dope like him could see that—and he wasn’t about to let Mark’s efforts go unrewarded.
“There’s two in there layin’ pretty much one over the other. Miss the one and maybe I can get the other.”
“And if you miss them both, we cut the line and leave it. The arrow won’t be going anywhere and we can come back when the level drops.”
“It’s ten yards, Bennett. Hell, I’ve killed chipmunks at twenty.”
Mark smiled. “Ever try them deep fried?”
“Just hold the thing steady.”
Charlie set his feet, knees bent to cancel the wobble. Picked his target. Focused. Then drew the string to his chin and let the pin settle… A thuck sounded, a greenish spiral flashing across the gap… Thunk! Water kicked up, the arrow wagging amongst the leaves until the limb settled. “How’s that go…? Nothin’ but net?”
“I’ll be damn, Bull. You actually hit the thing!”
Charlie baby-stepped back around and flopped on his seat. “Told ya I could hit it.” He laid his bow across the gunnels—the branch was not only big, but floppy—then reconsidered and instead slid the thing under the thwarts alongside his paddle. He grabbed the line and took up the slack.
“Careful… Easy now…, don’t jerk it….”
Mark was still running off at the mouth, the tension on the string beginning to swing the canoe into the current when the limb shuddered free and into the eddy. Charlie hand over handed the line from the tracker, Mark a one man cheering squad as the branch floated clear of the clutter and thumped alongside the boat.
Charlie went to a knee. “Gotcha!” The branch was an easy two inches across at the base. “That frickin’ storm had to be somethin’ else to rip this guy loose.”
“Lucky for us.” Mark leaned overboard. “There’s four, five… shit, the thing’s loaded.”
“You wanna pick ‘em here, or when we get back?”
“I suppose we could, but I’ve got jerky on the brain, so my money’s on camp.”
Charlie nodded. “That’s right. We were gonna do some smokin’ with this, weren’t we?”
“I don’t know if you did that on purpose, but it’s nice to know I’m not the only one with a sieve for a brain.” Mark got settled on his knees. “Shove whatever piece you can to me. Once you get your arrow out, we can haul it in here and strap this bugger down.” It didn’t go quite the way Mark described, but with each of them working different parts of the branch, they eventually got the thing situated under the thwart with all but three of the yet-ripening broranges still attached. Paired bungee cords, two up front and two in back, were lastly stretched from gunnel to gunnel to prevent the twiggy load from getting in the way of their paddles.
Mark leaned back on his seat and extended a hand. “You did good.”
Charlie swiped at the drippy maze of branches, then stretched forward and slapped Mark’s palm. “You too. And thanks. It’s good bein’ out again.”
“You’re welcome, my friend. Any time.”
The slack came out, the canoe bumping against the log when Mark slipped a leg over the side and snagged it with his foot, the sun hot on his shoulders as he peeled the rope loose and coiled it into a bundle. He grabbed his paddle, checking ahead, listening to the sound of a paddle scraping the hull, and plotted a course through the upcoming obstructions. “You about ready?”
More scraping. “Yeah, I think so.”
Foot in, paddle out, Mark nudged clear of the snag, then rattled his paddle alongside it, easing the boat out and forward. A stiff follow up got the boat moving. And still only scraping from Charlie. Slowed by the onrushing current, the canoe started turning.
“Stop what you’re doing, Bull, ‘cause I could really use—”
“I never said ‘go’, Bennett! And I’m tryin’ alright? But my paddle’s… I don’t know, pinned somehow.” A hard tug gained him only inches. “Get us back in and we can start over.”
Sunlight and shadows and leafy overhangs slipped past, Charlie struggling to free his paddle while Mark fought to stop the canoe turning. And for a few brief seconds he did, the canoe drifting at an angle when the keel snagged and the Rockfinder jolted on its side. Charlie sagged over the gunnel; the river flooded in; Mark still digging when the canoe tipped and spilled them into the river….
Mark kicked to the surface, hat gone, though still with his paddle, and spotted the canoe. He twisted around. “Charlie…?” A hand went up near the bushes, so no worries there. Struggling simply to keep his head above water, he caught a glimpse of a life jacket—numbnuts wasn’t wearing his either—then stroked and kicked toward the boat. A trivial matter to lose a life jacket; to lose a canoe would be catastrophic.
He’d rescued his share of boats before, though never when the need was so great. The canoe was drifting sideways, and unless he got to it before the rapids did, the river almost certainly would destroy it. But get the thing aligned with the current and maybe, just maybe Charlie’s old beater would flush through.
He shoved his paddle toward the canoe and dog-paddled after it. Shoved again, swam forward….
While the river was in motion, relative to the current, the overturned Rockfinder wasn’t moving at all, and Mark managed to reach it in under a minute. He grabbed on and worked himself along the gunnel, then reached over and grabbed the keel. A solid tug and the canoe rolled over, the branch still secured, the gunnels dipping in and out of the water. He worked his paddle frantically along the hull and under the thwarts, the roar in his ears ever louder.
He wrenched the bow sideways, kicking, tugging, his tennies feeling like boots when he felt the painter swirling along his legs. “Fuck,” he sputtered, his heart pounding on overdrive. “That’s enough of this crap.” Far too close to the drop already, Mark gave the canoe one last shove before stroking madly toward shore.
Charlie made contact, and a few strokes later got a solid enough foothold to finally slow down. From swimming, to skipping, and finally to a steady lean, Charlie was waist deep and only yards from shore when he noticed blue sky above the meadow.
He stumbled ashore, drippy, winded, and glad to finally be out of the river. The bank was a stacked hard pack of grays and browns, the rapids thundering along the near vertical wall as if from the world’s biggest woofer. There were boulders eroding from the bank farther down, the ones in the river busy being polished on the one side with the other all busted to hell. The current was fast only feet from shore, and faster still farther out. Which is where his canoe was, loaded up and headed for the grinder.
Mark was struggling to make headway, a wild look in his eyes and clearly in trouble.
Charlie stabbed a finger out. “Come left, Bennett! Head for that rock!”
Mark slapped the water and quickly changed course.
T
here were roots poking along the bank, but nothing substantial enough to climb. He looked to the Rockfinder—“Shit!”—and knew he was too late anyway. Water splintered along the hull, his old and trusted friend bucking with the current and still speeding up when it started over and vanished in the froth. He focused on the river streaming away from below the rapid, watching, waiting. But his canoe never showed….
It just wasn’t fair.
They’d all lost equipment at one time or another, but never anything major. So maybe it was time. Uh huh. But why mine? And when he finally got back they’d all be understanding and say shit like, ‘Be glad you didn’t go over with it’. Charlie’s hands balled into fists when he remembered his compound. Son-of-a-bitch! Not one thing, but two!
His boat. His compound! And yeah, the Rockfinder was a piece of shit. But it’s my piece of shit, damn it!
“Thanks a lot, Bennett,” he sniffed, staring along the tumbling cascade, remembering the duck hunts, the rivers, the misty morning with his son…. “You and your fancy ideas.” With all the other crap he’d been through lately, losing his boat was heartbreaking. “I shoulda never listened to you, Bennett. Never.”
He stretched up, trying again to spot his canoe, but the drop was simply too deep. Mark was a good twenty yards out, and from there he had to have a better view. Maybe he could see something.
Charlie started alongshore, the stones and cobbles nearest the bank already drying. The rock Bennett was on was the farthest one out, with a whole lot of nothin’ between him and the rapid. The son-of-a-bitch was lucky from that standpoint at least, which was more than he could say for his boat.
Charlie stopped opposite Mark and cupped his hands. “Any sign of her?”
Mark was sure he couldn’t have missed it, and knew it couldn’t sink either. True to form, that meant the Rockfinder was probably pinned. At least he hoped it was, and not wrapped around a damn rock. Tomorrow maybe, or the day after, whenever the hell the river fell to a more reasonable level, they could come back and figure a way to get out there and see what kind of shape it was in. Then, if it wasn’t too banged up, get a rope on it and….
And the chances of that? Not too friggen swell.
A shout from shore called: “Any sign of her?”
He turned to give Charlie the bad news. “Sorry, Bull… no. We can try coming back tomorrow….” An all too familiar visage was thudding across the meadow. His jaw sagged open. That’s impossible! You’re dead!
Except that it wasn’t.
He yelled out, “Run for it, Bull!” then speared from the rock and into the river.
The ripple was still expanding, the fear in Mark’s voice ringing in his ears as a shape loomed overhead, and in that stupefying instant Charlie Van Dyke knew that his life was about to end. A three-toed foot hammered the overhang, dirt and pebbles pelting the shoreline when the dragon swallowed the sun.
The beast flew on for a seeming eternity, flames curling along its monstrous flanks, daggers gleaming at the tips of its feet, light flaring anew as the dragon faded slowly away….
19
The tigress crashed into the river, snapping at the swirls, clawing, grime spraying from between her teeth. She pulled up, snorting, and stared furiously about the water, lashing the bank with her tail. A whorl blossoming on the surface was summarily attacked. Another, and she lunged again, the dinosaur snarling in frustration as she chased the inconstant patterns swirling about the surface.
She strode forward, the river pressing harder when she slumped belly deep in the water. Arms reached and slashed the surface, her gaze less focused, her footing insecure. She snarled at the bursting pulses of white, the air throbbing with the pounding fury of the falls. Backing unsteadily toward the shallows, tail flagging, an utterly furious predator searched for the prey she knew was there.
A paw showed when the creature surfaced.
She charged toward the falls, the upright without a tail wriggling below the surface….
His lungs screamed louder with every passing second, yet quieting them prematurely could mean taking his last breath. Weirdly grateful to be focused on the pain and not her, Mark would have to surface soon regardless. Then too, he needed to turn himself around or he’d end up shattering his skull against a rock.
His lungs were screaming. Breathe! Breathe now!
Mark kicked with an agonized gasp to the world of noise and air. He thrashed on the surface, drawing in a lungful of air and was still struggling to get his feet situated when the water curling off the face of a boulder drove him under.
The light dimmed, the thunder faded, a swarm of tinny tinkles swirling around his ears. A white hot explosion went off in his back, a precious mouthful of air slipping away when he gasped. Slippery hard surfaces shot past. And the world went black, and he winced as ice picks stabbed into his ears, the jet sweeping him along the bottom… and just as quickly up again, his lungs ready to explode when he burst to the surface, the air a mix of thunder and light as the river roared churning between the boulders.
He bumped hard, his nails clogging with algae as he groped along the surface. With fast water on one side and calm the other, he worked frantically to lock himself in the eddy, scraping for the slightest purchase with his fingers and toes. He slipped along, a tiny fracture at last ending his descent.
Breathing hard, hanging by his fingertips, Mark closed his eyes and took inventory. The bruises wouldn’t make themselves known until later, but there were still shoes on his feet, and no broken bones either… which he found absolutely amazing. You’re not that lucky, dickhead. You’re still in the middle of a nightmare. A snarl speared his back—What’d I tell you?—and he flinched around, his heart thumping in his throat.
He was startled but not surprised. “What took you so long?”
The predator was fuzzy in an oddly familiar way, and he blinked to clear his vision. No help, he next tried rolling his eyes—“No, you can’t have!”—and saw not a hint of frames! To have lost his glasses was devastating, and he thought in a panic to where he’d packed his spare while wondering if they were a recent prescription. He caught a glimpse of shiny black over orange, and notched his head cautiously around. Big golden eyes were staring, tight lines separating the scales on her face, the black nostrils opening, closing. You’re worried about blurred vision? That’s your priority…? She’s what you need to worry about, dumb ass!
The big eyes shifted in their sockets, their glaring intensity moments ago now one of contemplation. He wasn’t going anywhere, and she’d have him for lunch just as soon as she figured out how to reach him. Mark looked away, trembling. He had a decent toehold, but there were limits to everything. His toes, his fingers, one or the other would give out eventually, and when that happened he’d slip from the rock and get flushed into the river.
And there she’d be… waiting.
He checked the crack higher up. Drier, but nothing wide enough to hook a finger in. There had to be another way. Had to be.
The dinosaur was back to pacing, stopping here and there to see how far she could go, stepping out to test the current, then pulling back again. Considering that the seam of angled rocks was the reason the rapid existed in the first place, he could well imagine slots carved into the earlier sediments by a thousand floods like this one. And with all the back-and-forthing it wasn’t at all farfetched to think that she’d eventually try downstream. Find calmer water past the gouges and she could get to snooping for a path to the base of the rapids. And once she had that figured out….
Don’t go there. Just don’t. You’ve got more important things to worry about.
It was a bony eight feet to the rock nearest the predator, and maybe half that to the boulder opposite. Lucky for him—that way, and not the other way around— Mark was examining the rock he was clinging to when an odd noise caught his attention….
He focused, and from within the thundering throb of the rapid heard a barely perceptible bump bump. Long seconds passed—bump…bump bump—th
en nothing again. Buried in the rush of the rapids, the noise seemed not to have a single source, at times coming from multiple directions at once. It didn’t sound like any log he’d ever heard, but then he’d never been quite in this position….
Bump bump.
A quick look caught the dinosaur staring, the eyes shifting from him to the boulder as if wondering whether to jump. You’re good where you are, bitch. Just stay put. And okay… it’s not you. As frustrating as it was not being able to identify it, with a multi-ton predator breathing down his neck, the noise was a distraction he couldn’t afford. His main focus now was to—
Bump… bump.
“Go away already!” he grumbled, squinting to study the boulder, waves now and again slurping across his face. He scraped a shoe along an unseen surface, feeling for an edge, and found what felt like a solid toehold. Another bump, and this time he ignored it, his attention directed at the waves awaiting should he lose his grip, the mist in the sunshine so bright it hurt his eyes. There were bits of driftwood and whatever else caught in virtually every eddy, but only one that kept drawing his eye. Something dark was wobbling in the eddy behind a boulder two slots over that, even blurred, didn’t look like a log.
A whirlpool swirling from between the boulders got the thing moving: Bump… bump bump.
Mark leaned out, his fingers and toes gripping the rock. Can you believe that? The boulder nearby partially blocked his view, but even upside down the Rockfinder seemed to have made it through the slot intact.
Mark snugged himself against the rock, his smile quickly fading.
“Okay, swell. Now what?”
*****
Hayden yawned as he stretched up outside the tent. “That’s the best bit of sleep I’ve had since we got here.”
Tony was scraping hot coals onto a slab. “I know how that goes. If I’ve gotten eight good hours total I’d be lucky.” He stood carefully, wood in one hand and scraper in the other, and headed for the smoker.
