by David Boyle
*****
An hour past the sail-heads and too many switchbacks to count, even Hayden’s dogged persistence was flagging. Narrow and deep for the last half mile, the river’s nearly nonexistent current had offered ample take-outs. Even so, they’d seen no sign of Mark or the canoe. Ron had twice suggested they turn back, and in each case Hayden had responded: “Right after we check the next bend.”
The current was picking up, and Ron was hunched across his paddle, resting in preparation for the exhausting return journey. Another hour and they’d have to calls it quits anyway.
The river was into the trees in places, and with so many spots to land and find shelter, Hayden was taking his time to examine every last cranny. Ron dipped his paddle. Another curve. Waning spirits and dashed hopes had long since jaded his outlook, and around the bend was inevitably more of the same.
Not this time.
Ron lifted his paddle. “Hear that?”
A distant rumble carried across the water. “Not a blowdown this time.”
The last mile had seen a dramatic increase in the number of rock outcrops, so the sound bleeding around the curve wasn’t a total surprise. The river vanished a hundred yards ahead, and by the time they’d cut the distance in half they could see white boiling through the gorge. A nearly straight cut through the rock, even after a quarter mile, where the river turned out of sight, the boiling cascade showed no evidence of ending.
The canoe floated ahead, turning with the swells. Hayden stared off, deflated. They’d reached the end of the line, a knot tightening in his gut when he caught a glimpse of Mark’s hat.
Ron twisted on his seat, seconds later. “If Mark was alive, you know he wouldn’t have gone in there. Worst case, he’d have swam to shore and let the canoe go. So he’s either dead, or we somehow managed to pass him.”
Hayden was stunned by the canyon. “Let’s get to shore. If the boat did get this far, it might have gotten wrapped, and maybe we can spot it.”
They tied off the boat and trotted to a site overlooking the falls. The river speeded up over a span of barely thirty yards, the main chute big, wide, and easily runnable right to the point where the river dropped into the canyon and shattered along a thirty foot staircase of boulders before ricocheting at the bottom like a pulsating geyser. And if the ride down didn’t kill anyone unfortunate enough to have gotten caught, the curlers cork-screwing off the walls were certain to finish the job.
Hayden scanned the gorge. “Class V at least.” Ron shook his head, then cupped his ear. Hayden raised his voice, shouting: “Class V!” Necked by the rock walls into a slot perhaps thirty yards wide, the canyon was a death trap.
“Sure wish we’d brought the binoculars,” Ron shouted.
“Just more to carry,” Hayden shouted back. “And you’re right. Mark would have gotten out long before he got anywhere near this.”
Ron snagged Hayden’s arm when he got up, and pointed to the far shore. A big head with horns was moving quickly toward them through the forest, along with an army of reinforcements.
“Look at the size of those things…! Any idea what they are?”
Ron shrugged. “Bennett’s the expert. Just be glad they’re there, and we’re here.” There was nothing but the roar of the falls, minutes passing while the three-horned dinosaurs galloped through the forest. “Be nice to know where they’re going. And tanks? Hell, they’re damn near as big as my house!”
Hayden was quickly losing interest in the parade. “Come on. Now that we know where Mark isn’t, let’s see if we can find out where he is.”
*****
Knowing there was a thoroughfare below made all the difference, his downhill trek following the path of least resistance, first to the trail, then north to the deadfall, then left again and down. Traveling lighter helped, the pleasure of not having broranges bouncing around in his shirt gradually replaced by the desire to find the ones he’d hidden on his way up. He hurried through the forest, listening, and stopped where he had a partial view of the river. The river was there, the parasaurs weren’t, and thankful for small favors, Mark continued on along the gully.
Still chiding himself for not having tossed his bota into the boat, Mark finally located a spot along the creekbed with more than a trickle. He pried some rocks loose, then waited impatiently for the water to clear before taking a long overdue drink. A sound or a movement, Mark was still slurping the delicious wetness when a whispered rustle caught his ear. He tipped back on his heels, frowning, and was coming to the conclusion it wasn’t the wind when the snap of a twig got him focused in the right direction.
Fast and feathered, the thing leaping from cover had the splayed feet of an eagle.
Reflexes swung the bow, nothing more, the arrow pin wheeling away when the compound’s metal riser made contact, his mind a blur as teeth sprayed and the feathered head kicked sideways. The dinosaur crashed beside him, stunned and kicking, the arms flapping as it struggled to free itself from the bushes.
Astonished by the thing’s sheer audacity, Mark stumbled along the streambed while working to pluck an arrow from the quiver. The demon shook itself onto its feet, Mark at last with an arrow on the string when the animal darted forward. He yanked the string back, the arrow away the instant his fingers touched his ear. A meaty thuck! sounded, flakes of rock and pieces of an arrow flying when the broadhead ricocheted off a cobble.
The dinosaur faltered, and Mark quickly readied his next to last arrow while hurrying to distance himself from the dazed and outlandish little killer. The thing wobbled forward, the eyes blinking as if to refocus, a red mist spewing from its lips when it caught sight of its target and loped forward.
Mark took a stance, drew back and released. Again the thuck! the arrow a blur as it rattled through the low shrubs along the creek. Certain this time he’d made a good hit, he saw too that the dinosaur was still coming. He stumbled back, frantic, and had barely freed the last arrow from the quiver when the dinosaur folded in mid-stride.
He’d find later that both shots had hit their mark, the broadheads slicing ribs both coming and going, one nearly bisecting the thing’s heart. It lay writhing on the rocks, blood spurting from twin holes in its back. For Mark it signaled some primitive release, and he fell to his knees, the shaking thus far held in check soon uncontrollable, the forest little more than a blur.
For long quivering and defenseless seconds, Mark knelt contemplating the ridiculously small creature that had come so close to ending his life. Except for the years spent shooting instinctive, he was certain he’d already be dead. From start to finish, the entire episode had taken barely thirty seconds. A lousy half minute from relaxed carelessness to near death.
Still tingling, still shaking, Mark got to his feet and cautiously approached the brightly plumed predator. The thing only weighed thirty pounds, forty at most. He jabbed the broadhead into the thing’s eye, grinding, and carved out the lens. He considered the bit of tissue with grim satisfaction, then flipped it away like spit. He snapped the arrow onto the quiver, then looked at the predator that had tried to take his life. He kicked the thing in the face—“You cock-sucking bastard!”—then again, and again, and as had McClure on their second day, vented his fears, his hatred, and his lingering terror in a stream of unbroken profanity.
The air was suffused with the scent of blood, minutes later, when Mark walked to where he’d dropped the first arrow. He sighted along the shaft, saw the bend—
“Damn”—and snapped it onto the quiver for some later TLC. Ranking squarely alongside canoes and ammunition, arrows and arrow heads were far too valuable to waste, and he spent the better part of an hour locating the forward half of arrow number one.
With the possibility of having to bargain his way out of another situation, Mark gutted the predator, hacked off its head and arms, and the legs at the knee. Butchering the thing had the disquieting effect of reinforcing the fact that size mattered little in this beautiful yet terrifying world. He was closing on four times t
he dinosaur’s weight, yet the thing had attacked him, and had done so without provocation or warning. Armed literally to the teeth, the predator was the embodiment of a sobering reality: that to be in the forest with a weapon was a risky proposition, and that to be in the forest weaponless was risking near certain death.
Desperate to be back on the river, Mark looped one of the painters around the carcass and dragged it bouncing along the streambed.
He found the spot where he’d buried the broranges and, after their resurrection, quickly resumed his trek. The river was ahead, coursing peacefully beyond the trees. Still shaken, and now more watchful than ever, Mark was glad when finally he spotted the pocket of big ferns where he’d hidden the canoe. He could see where the parasaurs had been browsing, then noticed too there was something different about the ferns.
He hurried over, and stumbled wide-eyed to a stop…
The ferns, the bushes, and the nearby areas were trampled flat. Broken branches lay scattered about. And not a trace of a canoe! Dumbfounded, Mark ran searching in a panic for Charlie’s old beater… his salvation… and his one and only way home. “No no no! This can’t be! It can’t! Not here… not now!” Tears of utter hopelessness streamed down his face as he stumbled about the devastation in ever widening circles.
Then finally a glint, well back in the trees.
He hurried over, his arms going limp at his sides. The canoe was there, bent and slightly twisted. He looked more closely, then fell sobbing to his knees.
Ravaged by a predator, both sides of the Grumman’s hull were riddled with holes…
*****
“Smells like breakfast cookin’.” After having used the better part of the morning exploring the island, Charlie was taking a second to get his bearings. He reached to scratch the feathered head, his newfound buddy at once twisting its neck. “So’s that better?” he asked, the eyes drooping as he worked his fingers down and along the dinosaur’s throat. He smiled—“Okay, that’s enough”—and with a final pat, started off. “We can play more after we eat.”
The dinosaur padded along, following the leaf-man through the thicket. Creepers skittered from beneath the stumpy feet, the little ones now far easier to catch than while hunting with the pack. The leaf-man’s offerings, the gentle paws, and the reassuring me-calls were all gestures that served the bonding, the likes of which it had never known before the sky waters came and swept it into the river.
A creeper scuttled away, ignored, the dinosaur’s tummy long since filled.
A veil of blue was drifting through the trees when they strode into the clearing. Camp was quiet and without the usual chatter, Tony sitting alone by the fire.
“You finally decided to get up, huh?”
“Oh… morning Bull. Yeah, I was done with trying to sleep, and it was getting too warm. I see you found Mike.” The dinosaur was feeling right at home, nosing around the tents.
“To tell ya the truth, he found me,” Charlie said, glancing at his new pet. “Kinda crazy really. Here I’m asleep by the tree, and Mike’s nippin’ at my hand like he wants me to fix ‘im breakfast.
“I got the jerky down, and we’ve been munchin’ it….” Charlie cringed. “That’s okay, right? Lettin’ Mike have some?”
“If there’s one thing we’ve got plenty of, it’s that jerky. And if it keeps your friend happy, you can feed him all he can stand.
“Just keep watch on him. Smoked meat likely isn’t his normal.”
“The way he gobbles the stuff down, I can’t see as he’ll have any problems. But yeah, I’ll keep an eye open.” Charlie looked closer, furrows lining his brow. “What’d you do to your face?”
Tony reached to his cheek. “Oh, you mean this? I had to. The stubble was beginning to drive me crazy. How Mark and Hayden ever got past that stage I’ll never know.”
Charlie ran a hand across his chin. “Might not be a bad idea. Mind if I use your razor later?”
Tony said no, so long as he washed up beforehand. “Where were you off to anyway? And how long have you been up?”
“Mike got me up… I dunno, right around sunup. There was nobody around, so I figured we’d take a walk to see if we could find where everybody went.” Charlie scratched his temple. “Thing is, we covered most every part of this stupid island and I never did find them. Any ideas?”
Tony sidestepped the question. “Fix yourself some coffee. We’ve got to talk.”
An evasive response, Charlie shrugged it off and got a cup from the cookbox. Filled with hot water and a dash of instant caffeine, the cup and Charlie were soon stationed beside the fire. “That’s really hot!” he said, not quite sure what to make of the way Tony was watching. “Okay… so?”
Tony poked the strips sizzling in the pan. “What can you tell me about yesterday?”
Charlie blew across his cup. “And here I thought you had somethin’ important. Yesterday…,” he said, gazing absently into the trees. “Not much… ‘cept for the fight.” Their resident dinosaur was prowling the wood pile. “That first roar especially, and how it scared Mike.” Charlie set his cup down, his eyes searching the memory banks. “What gets me is why I didn’t see him after that.”
At Tony’s insistence, Charlie recounted his outing with Mark and how he’d pegged the branch with the broranges, a feat with which he seemed genuinely pleased. “Sounds like you made a good shot.” He paused. “Then what happened?”
Charlie went through how the boat had capsized. “Man, I was scared,” he said, his voice taking an edge. He wrung his hands. “It was like the day that bastard almost got us. And once I was swimmin’ I remembered the fish we caught. Every one of ‘em with teeth. I just knew one was gonna get me. Man… I never swam so fast in my life!”
Tony floundered right along with him: twisting away from the strainers; hearing the rapid’s roar grow ever louder; and stroking for calm water, desperate for the rocks that were Charlie’s only escape.
“…I felt bottom, and I tried to stand up. But I was goin’ too fast, and I kept missin’ the rocks until Bang…! I finally latched on’ta one.” He sighed. “However long I was in the water, it felt like forever. Anyway, that’s pretty much how I got to shore.”
Tony poked absently at the pan. “Then what?”
A crease wrinkled his forehead. Charlie picked up his cup, hesitating, and took a sip. “Hummm, that’s funny. I don’t….
“Oh… now I do. You and Hayden were there with the canoe. Yeah, and once we got back, me an’ Hayden went lookin’ for Mike.” A smile crept across his face. “And then this morning, Mike found me!”
“Yes, we were there. But not right away.” Tony paused, uncertain about how to proceed. “What happened after you got to shore? And what do you remember about the dinosaur?”
Charlie stiffened. “The dinosaur?”
“Okay, forget that. Do you remember what happened to Mark?”
“Mark came… he came back to camp with us. Didn’t he?”
Tony leaned forward, hands on his knees. “No Charlie. Mark didn’t come back with us. He was already gone.” Charlie was squirming, sweaty beads forming on his brow. “Something happened, Charlie. Something bad. When we got to you, Mark was in the river and—”
Charlie’s eyes sprang open. “My God!” he gasped, and threw himself to the ground, his arms wrapped across his face. “Get away from me! Get away. Jesus Christ, get away…!”
Tony was there. “Charlie, she’s gone. She’s gone, and she’s been gone a long time. You hear me? That was yesterday. She’s gone… and you’re safe.” Tony snugged his arm around his friend’s trembling shoulder. “You understand? You’re safe!”
Trembling, Charlie slid his hands from his face. “I remember now. Yeah, and it happened really fast. I mean, the thing came outta nowhere.”
“Where was Mark?”
“In the river on a rock. I remember bein’ pissed about my boat, Mark starin’ at the rapids, and he looks at me and says he can’t see it, and all of a sudden there’s this
look on his face. Like holy fuck, ya know? And to me it ain’t makin’ any sense. Mark turns, and just like that, Bam! he’s gone and she’s flyin’ off the bank! I mean like right over my fucking head!” he said, a shaky finger pointing. “The rapids were roarin’ and she just… I don’t know… I can’t really describe it, but she just kinda faded away.”
Charlie raked his fingers through his hair, Tony at his side. “And then I remember voices. You or Hayden talkin’ about Mike.” He shook his head. “But that had to be later, huh?”
“Yes it was. Quite a bit later to be honest.”
“So what happened? Why didn’t she kill me? And what happened to Mark?”
“You okay now?”
“Yeah, I… I think so.” Each of them got resettled.
Tony tapped out a cigarette. “Who knows? Maybe there was something we could have done. Except nobody was watching.” He shook his head, and lit up. “Way I understand it, Wheajo had a chance to shoot, but didn’t—which is a whole other story—and by the time Ron got back to camp, she was gone and following him alongshore.”
“He was swimmin’?”
“No. According to Wheajo, Mark was in your canoe.”
“You mean the Rockfinder made it?”
“Apparently. And from what Wheajo said in good enough shape that Mark was able to paddle without it turning over.”
“No shit? And if she followed him, how’d he get back?” Charlie looked about the campsite. “Where is he anyway?”
Tony took a drag, and for long seconds just stared at the fire. “No one knows. With how agitated the dinosaur was, and how soon she was back, McClure is pretty sure he’s dead.”
