by David Boyle
Probing with his toes and backing off if he felt the slightest give, Hayden worked his way carefully up the tree. Fifteen feet… twenty. And at just over twenty-five he reached the first stub. He flashed Charlie a thumbs up.
“Good goin’, Prentler.”
“Almost there,” he said, staring up with sweat trickling past his ear. From where he stood the evergreen would be relatively easy to climb, even for Ron, using one branch after another for hand and footholds. Still, the stub he was on didn’t make for swell footing. He looped the rope over his shoulder. “Once I get another rung or so higher I’ll tie off again. Should make it easier for you to get a handle on the situation.”
“That’ll help,” Charlie said. “But after watchin’ you, nowhere near enough. Me an’ ropes never did get along.
“Go on up and I’ll start on a stairway. The first two or three I can get with the axe. And once the rope’s set, I can get the rest with the hatchet.”
“Sounds good,” Hayden said, and started up. “Oh, and Bull…? While I’m thinking about it, tie on the other throw rope so we don’t forget it. Once you’re finished with the hatchet I’ll take it with me so anybody following will have more than branches to hang on to.”
“Will do. Give me a minute and she’s all yours.”
Forty-five minutes and three branches higher, Hayden was casually scanning the lake when Charlie hauled himself onto the stub just below. “Good job. Those are going to make getting up and down a lot easier.”
“There’s no easier about it. I either notched the son-of-a-bitch or stayed on the ground.” The view to the top was like looking through a row of bicycles, one giant axle and a shit-load of spokes. “And here I thought draggin’ the boats up was hard. I mean, Jesus, look how many branches there are….”
“We’re not cutting them all.”
“Yeah, but still….” Charlie couldn’t help but notice the glistening red when he passed Hayden the throw bag. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Could be worse. Started oozing on my way up, but it’s stopped now.” Hayden clipped the buckle around his belt. “Guess it can’t get in the way there.” He wiggled his fingers. “Hand me the hatchet. And remember, three or four feet is all we need.”
“Ten-four.”
“And down here it maybe doesn’t matter, but we need to end up facing southwest. Wheajo was very specific.”
“Got it, southwest. And no forgettin’ to tie yourself in.”
“While I’m cutting?” Hayden said, and started up. “Not hardly.”
Charlie watched Hayden worm his way through the branches. Lanky? Yeah… Uncoordinated? Yeah, that too, sometimes. Even so, the guy was a natural climber.
It was raining again, kind of, the accumulated mist showering down in bursts whenever Hayden so much as nudged a branch. However long that lasted would be a good indicator of how long it took him to get to the top. They’d talked about making it to a hundred feet before noon.
Having to put up with a rope dangling from his waist was going to be a pain, but it was either that, or end up climbing all the way down if he ever lost his grip on the axe.
And a hundred feet? Charlie smiled. Give Prentler anything bigger than a twig to hang on to and he’d make it at least that high.
*****
Of the four primary out islands, only the outermost two were considered isolated enough to homestead, the one Ron and Wheajo had decided upon being the island due north of their work site. Reasonably well forested and the second largest overall, the island was an easy paddle to and from the big island, and, depending on where they pitched the tent, gave them an almost unrestricted view of the evergreen.
They made a slow circuit of the island, paddling side by side in the mist. There weren’t any animals, and after the storm, no tracks either. The trees, shrubs, and sundry ferns appeared healthy and uneaten, welcome signs that the island was seldom if ever inhabited. Finding firewood was going to be a bit of a problem, and unlike the big island, protected campsites were scarce as well. Even so, the out island had the makings of a picturesque campsite.
Ron was in wonderful spirits, the clack of the hatchet ringing from the evergreen when he grounded the Tripper. He hopped ashore with a glance at the evergreen, then caught the bow of Charlie’s Rockfinder as Wheajo neared the beach. “Told you he could get up there,” he smiled, hauling the Grumman onto the sand. “And for your first time solo, you didn’t do too bad either.”
Surprised by the comment, Wheajo acknowledged he had much to learn.
The midpoint of their new home was also the highest, which likely accounted for its also having the greatest concentration of palms. They cleared away the leftovers from the storm and ripped up what plants were in the way, and after leveling a large enough area, erected Ron’s still-soggy tent. The canoes were soon unloaded, and a spot chosen not far from the tent for the fire.
“We get a wind like last night and we could be in trouble. I don’t think we need to bother now, but we should probably put some dead-men in later.” Ron explained. “Those are logs you rope to the corners of the tent and bury. When all that’s holding the tent is sand, a handful of buried logs can keep the thing from flying away in a windstorm.” He ruffled the fly to shake the sand loose. “Not a bad campsite, all things considered.”
“The island is somewhat limited in amenities.”
It was Ron’s turn with the look. “Humor, Wheajo?”
“An attempt.” Honks sounded in the distance.
“Not bad for a starter. But whatever will your shipmates think?”
“I will educate them. You think this is not possible?”
“After what we’ve been through? Anything’s possible.” Ron thought for a second and cracked up. “I can see it all now. Wide screen. Intergalactic audience. The whole bit.” He took hold of an invisible microphone. “And now,” he said in his best announcer’s voice, “hereeeee’s Wheajo!
“Imagine,” Ron said, a sparkle in his eyes. “You could be the first cosmic comedian!” Then it really hit him. “And I could be your manager!” His expression went suddenly serious. “Now I know we didn’t hit it off all that well. You know, all that stuff about wanting to blow your…. Well, you remember.” Ron was squirming. “I really didn’t… I mean I wouldn’t really have….” Ron knew his managerial prospects came down to one question: “You wouldn’t hold that against me, would you?”
Wheajo thought for a moment. “I think not.”
“Yes!” Ron said, jerking his fist. “That’s excellent. Trust me, Wheajo, you won’t regret this. I’ll start work on a routine as soon as we get back to camp.”
Wow! Talk about travel!
Through the sprawl of a pair of broadleaf trees, they could see and hear Hayden at work high in the evergreen. Whether the work could be finished in one day was questionable, but with only two tools at their disposal, Ron and Wheajo, for the moment at least, could do nothing to help. Their stay on the island would last however long it took, and with camp established their job was to gather firewood to last for the next two or three nights.
Ron had done enough wood hauling to know that paddling a canoe loaded with an assortment of uncut logs was an unwieldy proposition. And while Wheajo argued that their time could be best spent paddling separately, he insisted on going tandem until Wheajo understood exactly what was involved.
The paddle to the main island was quick enough, but the scrounging, dragging, and shuttling back and forth was more time-consuming than Ron remembered. Then too, keeping both seats clear put a serious damper on how much lumber one canoe could carry. That, more than anything, persuaded him to let Wheajo try paddling alone. There was only so much trouble his alien companion could get in to, what with no current and very little wind. And so what if he tipped? Wheajo was a good swimmer.
Still, there was always the matter of dinosaurs. And while none were nearby, Ron was very much aware that he and Wheajo had relocated camp to this pittance of an island specifically to avoid them. The
y’d finish quicker paddling separately, but with only one weapon, Ron watched that Wheajo didn’t stray far.
The canoes were back to empty, the wood they’d gathered spread across the sand near the site of their eventual campfire. The sun had long since burned away the overcast, and with rising temperatures, most of the dinosaurs had been driven into hiding. Sticky, tired, and finally able to emulate the neighbors, Ron rinsed off in the channel, got the canteen and a handful of jerky, and after offering some to Wheajo, settled into a shady spot beneath the palms.
“Smoked dinosaur and lukewarm water….” Ron rocked his head, chewing, then forced down another gulp. “I’d give almost anything for an ice cube.”
He squinted at the evergreen. A little better than half was visible above the trees in the foreground, but already there were definite openings along its side. Hayden was barely a silhouette amongst the branches, the two-tone clacking a sure-fire indication that Charlie was hard at work too. It was good to see they were making progress, but there were still a hell of a lot of branches yet to be removed.
“It can’t be fun working there,” Ron said, swirling the canteen before emptying it. “Hayden and Charlie—damn, this is terrible—have got to be exhausted. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking forward to this, but what say we give them a breather? It’s already past noon.”
Wheajo hadn’t realized how late it was. “I agree,” he said, and got to his feet. “Surely they have passed their maximum effectiveness. Come, we must exchange ourselves.”
Ron slung the rifle. “There anything heavy around here?”
“Heavy?”
“Yeah, a rock or something. A weight to drag the canteens under. We’re out of water and I’m thinking we can fill up on our way over. The water on top is pretty warm, but get below the surface and it should be cooler.”
“Below the thermocline.”
“Whatever. I figure the guys can use something cold. I know I sure can.” Ron checked in both directions. “Figures. You can always find a rock when you’re trying to sleep, but never when you need one. Let’s just paddle over and—”
“We have already taken too long,” Wheajo said, shoving the Rockfinder out to where it floated. “We will do this qickly, or not at all.”
“The word is quickly,” Ron said, bristling at the alien’s mispronunciation. “And if we don’t use a rock, what exactly would you suggest?”
“I will dive to the necessary depth.”
“Nice try. But without knowing what’s in here, it’s not worth the risk.”
Wheajo took his seat. “You are concerned for my safety?”
Ron slipped the Tripper out. “What can I say? That’s what managers do.”
Boughs lay tangled at the base of the evergreen, woodchips raining in spurts along the trunk. Ron hollered up to Charlie, who sagged back in his makeshift harness.
“It’s about time you guys got here,” he groaned, wiping chips from his face.
“Sorry about that,” Ron said, wrenching a limb loose and handing off to Wheajo. “From the looks of this, you guys got a lot done.” He stepped away, and along the trunk could see gaps where the limbs were missing; one leading up to Charlie, the other, higher up, to Hayden. “Come on down. It’s break time.”
Charlie leaned out. “Hayden!” he yelled, watching as a limb sailed past. “Time to hang it up. Our replacements finally got here.”
Charlie plopped to the ground, wincing, flexing his fingers. “Gads, Bull… you’re a mess,” Ron said, flicking leaves and bits of bark from the man’s shoulders. “Here, we brought you a present.”
Charlie upended the bota and might well have emptied it except that Ron warned him to go easy. “That’s good,” he said, tipping his head back and drizzling water across his face. “You find an icebox on the island?”
“Something like that,” Ron said, back to removing branches while keeping track of Hayden. Wheajo dragged a floppy limb away, and Ron quickly replaced it with another. And so it went until the rope started shaking. Ron took hold and steadied it, the rain of bits finally ending when he caught a foot and helped Hayden to the ground. Scratched and bleeding, filthy and exhausted, Hayden slumped against the evergreen and slowly collapsed.
“I give you the lumberjack from hell,” said Charlie, his woodcutting partner managing not a glimmer of a smile. “Come on. Don’t die on us now.” Charlie offered him the bota. “Here, you look like you can use this.”
Ron expected some kind of reaction—a nod maybe, or venting pent up frustration at their having taken so long to help. But Hayden had nothing to give, and seemed not even to notice how cold the water was. Not good.
Wheajo continued in and out of the clearing, dragging what branches he could handle and piling them in the clearing where they’d earlier pitched the tent.
A lonely honk filtered through the trees.
“All right guys, you’re in the way,” Ron said, trying to sound upbeat. “Go on back and crash for a while.” Hayden got to his feet, then stood there while Ron untied the safety line from around his waist. “And dig out the first aid kit and get something on those cuts.” Hayden nodded, and without a word followed Charlie to the canoe. Ron was nearly as peeved as he was worried. “Dopes are too stubborn to stop on their own,” he said when Wheajo entered the clearing. “We needed to spell them sooner.”
“They will recover,” was Wheajo’s curt reply, scanning the ragged spire. “If we apply similar zeal, we perhaps can complete this phase by nightfall.” Wheajo looped the safety line over his shoulder, then quickly ascended the steps cut along the trunk, the first of the throw ropes dangling along the evergreen. Even where the stubs were well apart, Wheajo had little trouble finding hand and footholds, and was soon high up and climbing higher.
Surprised initially by how easily Wheajo took to climbing, Ron came to realize that the alien’s uniquely configured hands gave him the advantage. He’d never done any climbing before, serious or otherwise, and if given the chance would happily have traded away his share of the fun. When it came to his Least-Favorite-Things-To-Do, climbing was near the top of the list.
He took hold of the knotted rope—How bad can it be?—and started up.
The effort was both mentally and physically challenging, and it was long minutes later before Ron was able to throw a leg over the stub. The first part of an even longer climb, and already his hands were sore.
He looked to the ground and wondered how many bones he’d break from this height. Enough to be excruciating surely. And in any other situation he’d go back down and be perfectly willing to admit to being a wimp. Bottom line: he wouldn’t be here unless he absolutely had to. Charlie had tied the axe off three or four broken bones higher. Wheajo was higher still, chipping away at the branches where Hayden had left off. Funny how height didn’t bother some people. Or aliens.
Resolving to avoid looking down until he was finished, Ron took a deep breath and continued climbing.
*****
The breeze was all but nonexistent, the sun well along in its efforts to bake the wetness from the island when Hayden and Charlie grounded the Tripper. They rinsed off in the channel, then stripped to their underwear and draped their clothes on the bushes to dry. Too tired even to eat, they hooked the fly open, and as friend McClure had so eloquently suggested, crashed in the tent.
Both were asleep in minutes.
Hayden blinked partially awake, the tap tap tap of his dream-writer replaced by the incessant clack of an axe. He shook away the sleep and reached for his glasses. Maybe he was dreaming, but the evergreen was showing serious gaps. Keep it up guys. Get enough done and maybe I won’t have to go back.
He was achy of course, a couple hours sleep couldn’t cure that, but the air was too sticky and uncomfortable to stay in the tent. And even if it hadn’t been, his stomach was growling. Charlie was lying in a pool of sweat beside him. Hungry and irritable, he too realized he needed to eat.
Charlie shaved up some fuzz sticks from the pile o
f firewood, and within minutes had a fire going over which he and Hayden roasted pieces of yesterday’s dinosaur. “Better than that smoked stuff, but I sure as hell could go for a coupla Quarter Pounders.”
“I’m getting tired of the dinosaur and nuts stuff myself,” Hayden said, twisting away from the smoke. “We really screwed up not bringing a fishing pole.”
“Yeah, we did. Now drop it already, okay?” Hayden went to the tent, and Charlie could hear him rifling through the dump bag. “What are you up to now?” Hayden stepped out with an old pair of jeans.
“Got your knife handy?”
Charlie undid the clasp and handed it to him, then watched as Hayden cut one of the legs above the knee. “You’re not worried about getting your legs sliced up?”
“I like shorts. They’re cooler for one thing. And I just don’t feel comfortable walking around in my underwear.” Hayden hacked off the other leg. “You bring an extra?” he asked, rolling the pieces he’d cut. Charlie said he had, but decided against, at least for the time being.
Two toned clacks carried across the channel, the evergreen more lopsided looking with every felled limb. They were happy with the progress Ron and Wheajo were making, and also in no hurry to join them.
Hayden zipped up his new shorts. “You up for a stroll?”
“Sure. We got time to kill. Give us a chance to look over some of the weird shit growin’ around here.”
Exploring the entire island wouldn’t take but twenty minutes, which meant they had lots of time to do whatever struck their fancy. They strolled the shoreline, both in and out of the water, taking note of the sometimes screwy looking plants. The onion-palm especially, with the three-foot diameter, half exposed bulb, and a big bloom of fronds for leaves. The funniest part was, the thing even smelled a little like an onion. Constantly on the lookout for anything recognizable, their score was still zero when they reached the eastern tip of the island.
