by David Boyle
“My concern is with your friend’s future performance.”
Charlie stepped from the tent in only his underwear. “Don’t go worryin’ about Ron,” he said, tugging on a pair of cutoffs. “Time comes to blow one of these assholes away… he’ll be ready.”
“Then the subject is ended.”
“Good,” Charlie said, zipping up. “And where’s the grub? I’m starving.”
Hayden directed him to the tree behind the tent. “And while you’re there, grab me a bunch of broranges. Ron’s got to be hungry about now.”
“Ain’t you been listenin’?”
“He’s had time enough to cool down. And wasn’t he the one talking about not going anywhere alone?”
Charlie flipped him some broranges. “It’s your neck. And as long as you’re goin’, strap that gunbelt on.”
“Me and that cannon? No thanks. I’m lucky I know how to handle a paddle.”
*****
Hayden rounded the head of the big island, watching as the distant lakeshore swung into view. Ron was propped against a log at the point, staring across at the hoard of scavengers picking about the kill, the lowest tier in the hierarchy circling overhead. He angled toward shore, certain that by nightfall there would be but scattered bones left to mark the duckbill’s final resting place.
Hayden settled quietly alongside his friend. The wind carried across the water, hot and dry. Lifeless. Clouds were creeping over the tree line far to the south. The shorelines, save for the scavengers, deserted in every direction.
“A bad scene, huh?” he said, breaking long minutes of silence.
“You could say that.”
“You shouldn’t take it so hard. You only did what you had to.”
“What I had to. Yeah right. If I’d shagged their asses off the island like I was supposed to, the prick would still be alive and none of this would have happened.”
“Now you’re going too far. How it died wasn’t your fault.”
“Look at them. Like fucking wolves.” Hayden didn’t have to; listening was enough. “I keep seeing that poor bastard’s head coming back, biting with those piece-of-shit teeth of his while that other guy’s—
“Drop it, McClure. I mean it. What’s done is done… and we still have a job to do.”
“Just like that? Like it’s so fucking easy?”
“Don’t go twisting things around. It was horrible what happened. But you’ve got to let it go. That part Wheajo’s got right.”
“What about Wheajo?”
“It’s not important. What is, is getting home.”
“Uh huh. Like that’s actually going to happen.”
“Would you stop already? There comes a point when all that negativity gets to be a bit much. And yeah, we may not get out of here. But to hear that day after day?” Hayden paused to hopefully get his blood pressure under control. “You did a good thing today. And what happened was not your fault. I repeat: not your fault. All I ask is that you quit with the ‘we’re not gonna make it’ crap. I mean really. I’m sick of it, and I don’t want to hear it anymore.”
Ron rubbed his forehead, still staring across the lake. “There’s not a lot of people I’d let talk to me like that… though I guess I had that coming.”
“You guess?” Hayden got up and went to the canoe, reached in. “Here, chew on this for a while”—he tossed Ron a brorange, who caught the fruit with one hand—“maybe it’ll improve your mood.
“Good catch, by the way.”
“Self-defense. It was either that or lick it off my face.” Ron pulled his knife. “You bring any more?”
“Yeah.”
“Then how about we finish them before we tackle a couple of these logs?” Hayden hesitated. “We got a raft to build, right? Why not start now?”
The rescue lines were in the boat. “We can do that.” Hayden got the broranges. “I ever mention what an ass you can be?”
“Often,” Ron said, carving in. “You bring the axe?”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to.”
*****
It took three trips and nearly as many hours to tow an eventually agreed upon total of five logs and two roughly 20-foot saplings to camp, the latter to serve as cross members and a source of bark for lashing. Trimmed at the water’s edge, then floated, the two gnarliest numerous times, the logs were fitted side by side and the tie points marked and notched where the cross members would go. Ron and Hayden had been selective in choosing non-hardwoods from amongst the driftwood scrounged from along the big island, yet with nine ends to trim on logs ranging upwards of better than a foot in diameter, it was late afternoon before the axe fell silent and assembly could begin.
Wheajo had peeled the saplings and slit the bark lengthwise into strips, then twisted the pieces together to create nearly 300 feet of a combination twisted-pair and twisted-triplet cord. With the logs floating and held temporarily in place with ropes, the saplings were laid out, trimmed to length, and tweaks made to the notches they’d cut to ensure that the cross-overs would seat properly when the whole conglomeration was lashed together. Two were down and secure, the last now nearing completion.
Charlie popped to the surface, sucking air. “How about you finish up?” he gasped, and tossed his hair back. “A couple more and we should be done.”
“I’m ready,” Hayden said, breathing deeply while Wheajo snugged the lashings and threaded them between the logs. He snatched a breath and went under.
“I don’t know what Huck Finn’s was like,” Charlie said, eyeing the raft. “But this one’ll be that good or better once we finish with it.” The first line snaked between the logs, tightened, the loose end then poking beside the next log over. Prentler poked up, and two breaths later disappeared, the second line tightening as had the first. Twice more Hayden repeated the process until Wheajo was able to secure the ends.
Hayden hooked his elbows on the outermost log, panting. “Back again?”
Wheajo shifted his weight. “Perhaps,” he said, noting how the assembly flexed. “Yet there is no need to rigidize the craft unnecessarily. Come aboard. We will know better whether further bindings are required after a short cruise.”
The sun was losing its bite, the air cooling and the skies filling once again with birds when Hayden dragged himself onto the bound-together assemblage. “Bull… got the paddles?”
“Ready an’ waitin’.” Charlie hesitated at the waterline. “You know what we’re missin’, don’t cha?”
Hayden squeezed water from his beard. “Yeah, but even if we had one… I doubt we’d use it on this.” Wheajo had one of his expressions. “This will be our first time out,” Hayden explained, “and we’ve made it a tradition to christen any boat hitting the water for the first time with a can of beer. Course this isn’t a boat. Still….”
“For luck I presume.”
Charlie stood surveying the tents. “Don’t knock it, Wheajo. It never hurts to have luck on your side.” He snagged a knot when he raked his fingers through his hair. There just wasn’t anything to use.
“If I may. There are broranges available.”
A glance to Hayden, and Charlie hurried off.
Hayden considered his alien companion. “You actually coming around… or just figuring out how to humor us humans?”
“The psychological benefits would appear to more than compensate for the loss of a single fruit. Moreover, why disrupt established tradition?”
“We’re going to make a human out of you yet, Wheajo.”
Charlie trotted back from the tent. “I found one that’s pretty busted up,” he said, splashing into the shallows. “But for this? Heck, it’s good enough.” Charlie took hold of the longest of the roots they’d left jutting from the center log—“I christen thee SS Hang Together”—and smashed the brorange against it. Juice splattered the logs, and elsewhere. “I getcha?”
“A little,” Hayden said, splashing tepid handfuls of water across his face and chest. Shadows were slanting across the cha
nnel, the number of dinosaurs swelling like clockwork as they began their nightly forays about the lake. “We’re official, Captain. She’s all yours.” And with that, Wheajo shoved his end from shore.
Charlie swept the nearby trees. “McClure…?”
“Forget him. Ron doesn’t want to be here… that’s his business. Climb on.”
Even with all three of them, the raft had a good three inches of freeboard. “Not bad if ya don’t mind wet feet,” Charlie remarked, stroking toward deep water. “And you said not to bother notchin’ the logs.” Lashed securely into the notches, the three cross members had clearly benefitted the raft’s longitudinal stability.
“Does feel lots stiffer that I thought it’d be.” A flight of pteranodons swished overhead, their passage only briefly drawing Hayden’s attention. “Ever built a raft before?”
“No,” Wheajo replied, watching how the lashings twisted and flexed. “The need had not previously arisen.”
“Same here,” said Charlie, his back pressed against the root. “Thing’s got character, you know? Different colors and all; a place to rest your arm.” He took a stroke. “Paddles for shit. But I like it.”
Hayden laid a hand on a lashing, and saw that Wheajo was watching them as well. “Think they’ll hold for as long as we need?”
“I believe so,” Wheajo said, pausing then and turning to consider his companions. “If we are lucky.”
“There you go,” Charlie smiled. “I knew you’d catch on.
“And these lashings? I tried breakin’ a piece, and damn near cut my friggen hand. Whatever kinda trees these are, the bark is tough,” Charlie said, sweeping his paddle. “For as long as this thing’s gotta last… yeah, they’ll hold.”
“A vote of confidence.” Hayden smiled. “That’s what I like to hear.”
The raft seemed sturdy enough, at least in the relative calm between the islands. Yet with the wind picking up, and almost a mile of lake to cross in the morning, it seemed a reasonable precaution to find out how well it handled in open water.
A heavy chop spilled around the head of the big island. “You sure we won’t need our life vests?” Charlie asked, spying whitecaps in the distance.
“Depends on whether you want to hike down to the river to get them.”
“Right,” Charlie said, stroking. “Guess I’ll leave that for tomorrow.”
The run into the lake had the desired effect of stretching the lashings and highlighting which needed to be tightened and/or strengthened. The raft had yet proven seaworthy and, due to its low profile, surprisingly resistant to the wind. But the thing was slow and awkward to paddle, the trip to the lake and back consuming the better part of the fast-waning daylight.
“You guys sure you’re not gonna need my help?” Charlie asked on hitting the beach. Hayden didn’t think so, and a check with Wheajo confirmed he was good to go. “Then I’m gonna take off and get McClure.”
“Be nice if you helped gather some of these pieces before you go. By the looks of this sky… there’s a chance we won’t be cooking come morning.” The trees across the channel shimmied and swayed to the beat of the wind; the clouds scurrying, churning; the canoe tied high above in the evergreen carrying their collective hopes and dreams.
Charlie sighed, glancing about the cuttings. “Okay, I’ll get ‘em stacked.”
There were still a few breaks in the fast moving cloud deck, the sun’s ruddy glow showing briefly now and again along the western horizon. The breeze was cool and, with an inkling of further decline, Charlie was having second thoughts about taking the long way around the island and wondering whether he’d packed enough clothes. The flying lizards seemed not to mind, a handful swooping about the lake like pointy-winged bats, nor the dinosaurs in the forests and alongshore, yakking away and rummaging for whatever it was that each of what had to be a million different types took to their individual liking. Not a one of them smart enough to know that soon it would be pitch black and that they were supposed to be going to sleep!
A flock of birds chittered past, heading to roost. On the outermost island most likely. Least they had sense enough to hole up. Which probably had nothing to do with it. More likely an eyeball thing… not being able to negotiate the trees and all. Like back home. It was comforting to know that however far back in time he was, the birds and their habits hadn’t changed.
And neither had Ron’s.
Charlie was beginning to think Ron had gone the other way when he spotted him, propped on a log and staring across the lake. “You missed the fun.”
“Yeah? What fun is that?”
“Had the raft out for a spin,” Charlie said, settling alongside. “You know, to work out the bugs? Ran it down the channel… even paddled into the lake a ways.” Charlie was knocking, but the door was still closed. “Turned out pretty solid. You can jump on the thing, and it just stares back… a little like you.”
Ron raked a pebble from the sand and flipped it into the lake.
“The sloshin’ up’n’down stretched the bindings Wheajo put together. Not a lot, but enough that he figured it needed a bit more tightenin’ up. Him an’ Hayden are workin’ on it now.”
“How’s it paddle?”
“‘Bout like you’d expect. Only this one you can’t fall out of.”
Ron nodded absently. “That’s good.”
The palms and ferns rattled in the breeze. Dinosaurs called from the gloom. Another pebble plopped into the lake.
“Think the temperature’ll keep droppin’?”
“How should I know?”
“Just askin’,” Charlie said. “Been thinkin’ about what I brought along. Got another shirt… but I don’t—”
“Let it go already. I know what you’re trying to do. But now’s not the time.”
“And when will it be? Tomorrow? The next day? Or the day after?” Charlie could almost hear the guy grinding his teeth. “I got a story for you.”
“I don’t want to hear it. Just leave me—”
“You’re gonna hear it anyway.
“Back about ten years ago, I was gettin’ pretty cocky about how good I was at plunkin’ rabbits, and a friend of mind asks if I’d like to try deer huntin’. And I’m like, ‘Hell yeah I would’.”
“There a point to this?”
“I’ll shorten it up for ya.
“I could pop bunnies at twenty yards, and when this doe shows up at thirty, I figured, no problem. I draw back, and she’s so damn pretty, just pokin’ along and mindin’ her own business. And I let go… and I know the instant the arrow leaves my fingers that I jerked the shot. She wasn’t hardly movin’ at all, but enough so’s my arrow catches her too far back and low. Into her guts. Got a sound ya know? A sickening plunk that I hear every time I pick up my bow and head into the woods.” Charlie hung his head, the recollection almost too painful to bear.
“You never told me this one.”
“You? Hell, I never told anybody this one. Not Travis… not anybody.” He looked to Ron. “And I don’t want to hear any of your shit about how bow hunters—”
“Relax Bull. Gun hunters got stories too.” Another pebble hit the water. “You ever find her?”
“Yeah… three days later,” Charlie said sadly. “Only she’d already been dead for two. Puffed up… with maggots crawlin’ around the hole in her gut.” He shook his head. “Fuckin’ awful. And I was the one who killed her.”
Ron stared across the lake. “It’s not the same.”
“Don’t gimme that. It’s exactly the same. Only in your case, the fucker died for a reason.”
“And that’s supposed to make a difference?”
“Shit yeah. That doe…? She made a difference. From that day on I was a better bowhunter because I learned never to lose my concentration. And you poppin’ that dinosaur is why we’re sitting here talkin’ instead of being out there, stuck in the canoe.” Ron nodded. “It’s not about forgettin’, McClure. It’s about movin’ on.” A gust sent a shiver along Charlie’s arms.
“You can stay here and eyeball the lake if you want,” he said, getting to his feet. “Me, I’m gonna find a warm spot by the fire.”
“Sounds good….
“And Charlie? Your story’s safe with me.”
The fire was going, Hayden and Wheajo parked strategically upwind from the smoke in pockets carved in the sand. Between them the remaining broranges sat piled like cannon balls of old.
Charlie hurried to the tent; Ron for the fire. “I was wondering whether that stuff would burn.”
“You kidding?” Hayden said. “In this wind we could burn logs pulled off the bottom. What’s your pleasure, McClure? We got some week old dried meat, a chunk from Shorty across the way, and some fruit.”
Ron opted for some of the fresh stuff, intent on saving his brorange for morning. “Raft all taken care of?”
“All is in readiness for our departure.”
Charlie came strolling into the light, wearing what appeared to be every stitch of clothing he’d packed. “Amazing how good dry shorts can feel. Here McClure, have a shirt.”
“I didn’t—”
“Take it, cause I ain’t goin’ back to the tent and I don’t want the thing blowin’ into the lake.”
“Hey,” Hayden said, “that looks like one of mine.”
Charlie shrugged. “Could be. I couldn’t see for shit in the tent.”
“You turkey. I was saving that for morning.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t go spitting up on it or anything. And aren’t you the guy who scrounged clothes from Bennett that time on the Flambeau?”
“That was different.”
“Uh huh.”
The conversation deteriorated, as it often did around campfires, into disjointed recollections of times long past. The evening was the last to be spent on the lake and, with their recent successes, everyone’s spirits were soaring.
“…and Bennett starts with his ‘Oooo, oooo, oooo!’ and waving his arms, like I’m supposed to know which way he wants to go. And bang! We end up broadside against a rock.”
