by Robin Shaw
Chapter 16
THE voice of the river swelled, growing from a hushed rumbling to a confused and deafening roar, as Craig paddled toward the jaws of the canyon. His whole body felt tight and afflicted by that indescribable lightness that apprehension brings. He had been unable to eat that morning. The greasy sausages had stuck in his throat, and he had come close to retching. Two cups of black coffee and innumerable cigarettes had served to awaken his tired body in the half-light. All night the river had spoken to him, a sound track to his sleep. There's no turning back, it told him, there's no retreat. A fatalism had overtaken Craig; but it gave him little comfort. None of his fears were removed. But he would do what he had to. So he had packed his belongings into the canoe and launched it onto the oily black stream.
The sun had not yet cleared the mountains upstream and the sky was a pale gray. The great canyon walls reared above his head, gloomy and threatening. The Gates of Death the Shoshoni Indians called this place, and in this light it justified the title. The river sped him downward, unbroken as yet but flowing fast, its surface dark and shining. Little, evil-looking whirlpools would appear and seem to flow independently of the main current, like the suckers of some deepwater creature.
With a crash the canoe hit the first wave of the rapid, a great foaming bulge of water that extended in an almost unbroken line across the river. The bow reared skyward, and the boat seemed for a moment to be about to topple backward. With a hard stroke Craig drove it through, icy water cascading off his head and cutting through his parka. The canoe swept on, colliding with a half-hidden rock and almost tossing Craig from his seat. As yet he was not in tune with the boat or the river. His body was cold, and tension interfered with the technique he had acquired in the past two days. Craig worked hard, forcing the bow of the canoe away from rocks that seemed to rush at him out of the foam.
The rapid was like a maze, and if the wrong path was taken, death would result. Craig had faced death many times, but the thought of meeting his end in these icy waters chilled his soul. He was canoeing abominably, striking the water at the wrong time and in the wrong place; but, miraculously, he was staying upright and avoiding obstacles. Spray from the never- ending fury of the rapid struck him repeatedly in the face. His face felt numbed and his mouth twitched in cold and fear. Insidiously the water crept through his anorak and spread through his shirt. Ahead he could see a gigantic standing wave. If he hit it, all would be lost. It would stop the boat dead and catapult him into the foam. Desperately he paddled, driving the stubborn boat away from the boiling mass of water. The current tugged at him, but he fought it hard. With a thunderous roar, the huge standing wave broke a foot from the canoe, cascading a wall of foam upstream. Over the gunwale of the boat it surged, awesome in its fury, forcing a scream to Craig's lips. In fear he thrashed at the river with massive strokes of the paddle, his body working to its limit in desperation to right the swamped canoe. Miraculously it came upright, a great sea beast sounding from the depths, gray water sliding from its back. And he was through, teeth chattering in misery and his blood pounding in his ears.
Working hard to keep the canoe on an even keel, he hurtled down the river. On both sides black walls towered, split by slimy, moss-filled cracks. Great blocks of gray rock hung out over the torrent, and far above his head was a strand of blue sky. A view from the grave. Craig had little time to inspect his surroundings. Fifty feet ahead the current dashed itself against the rock on his left and swept around in a great curve to disappear from view on the right. The curve had been undercut by aeons of time, eaten away by the continual voracity of the river. Now the cliff overhung the river by at least ten feet.
Into this wall the great river threw itself. Craig knew that if he were dragged in there, the boat and he would be crushed in an instant. Furiously he paddled for the right shore. The boat was heavy with water, and the current pulled him inexorably toward the jaws of the cliff. Suddenly by the right bank, a low shingle beach, he caught sight of an eddy. A haven. He must reach it. Throwing all his strength into a last effort, he fought against the stream, driving the paddle into the river, his muscles aching under the strain. Down he swept on the rock. He was almost crying in his panic, eyes blurred, mouth gulping air. At the last possible moment the bow of the canoe pounded into the eddy. The boat lurched as it met the strange current, but Craig righted it by slapping the surface of the water with his paddle. The eddy was like a different world. The water was calm and flowed gently, while outside the eddy the river foamed and crashed like a mad pack of dogs snarling and snapping at the smooth cliffs. The noise was deafening. It seemed to block out thought, and Craig felt himself surrender to its mighty power. Its force was awesome, and it stirred a primeval horror in him. What lay ahead, God only knew. But he could not stand this. He beached the canoe and emptied it rapidly, then pointed the canoe toward the corner and paddled gently to the edge of the eddy.
Suddenly he slowed. There on the opposite bank just before the rapid was a wooded shelf barely thirty feet by ten, a patch of green with the black wall rising above it. That was where Martin must have spent the night. He must be an expert canoeist to have safely landed his boat in the short stretch of water between these two rapids. Craig knew that it would have been impossible for him. And to lie all night with that roar in one's ears. He inspected the shelf. There was no sign of life. Martin must still be ahead. There was no time to be wasted. He eased the bow of the canoe out into the current that was ripping past, leaned downstream on his paddle to absorb the shock, and felt himself drawn out of the eddy, sucked back into the thundering stream. Around the corner he was swept, able to do little more than keep the boat straight and upright in the flow.
Below the bend the river dropped into a deep pool and changed its character in an instant. One moment it had been foaming and tossing, and the next it was a quiet, sleek creature. Even the roaring soon died away, contained by the cliffs that enclosed the rapid. Craig fought the urge to drift. The river was nearly ended, and if he did not catch Martin on this stretch, he never would.
He forced the canoe along, past great boulders perched on the edge of the river, past a stream that tumbled in a light spray five hundred feet from the cliff above.
Then, almost imperceptibly, the noise of the river increased, like the approach of a freight train, until the sound filled the canyon again. Ahead the jutting edge of the cliff prevented a view of the rapid. It was obviously ferocious, and Craig decided to stop at its head and inspect it to work out the best route. He rounded the corner slowly, ready to make for the bank whenever possible when the river began to speed up. His attention was totally concentrated on the point where the river began to drop, and it was not until he was twenty feet past the bend that he saw Martin. Somehow, though he had been thinking of this meeting for days, he was taken aback. It was almost as though the river had erased his memory.
Martin was on the bank just at the head of the rapid with his canoe upended and obviously draining. Quickly Craig drove his canoe at the shore. He had almost reached a small eddy where he could draw the boat out of view, when a glance back downriver showed him that Martin had seen him. Craig slowed the canoe. He was some fifty feet from Martin. What was he to do? There was no point in stealth now. Perhaps if he paddled toward Martin, he would not recognize him before he landed the canoe. If he did not approach now, it would confirm any suspicions Martin had and give him time to think. Craig swung the canoe away from the eddy and began to paddle unhurriedly toward Martin. Suddenly he realized that Martin held the gun. Like a flash, he changed his direction, paddling in a panic for the shore. As he reached a large rock that provided a protective eddy behind it, there was an almost imperceptible crack, and part of the rock about three feet from his head seemed to explode in a burst of dust. A sharp pain seared his arm, and as he looked down he saw blood spurt from a long, jagged cut. He swept behind the rock and out of view.
Rapidly he reached out of the canoe to the rocky bank and drew himself up, holding the b
ow of the boat. It was heavy with water, and he struggled to beach it. He could feel his heart battering against his ribs, and his mouth was dry. He quickly glanced over the rock and saw Martin still in the same place. Between Craig and Martin the cliff fell sheer into the water, and it would be impossible to move either up or downstream on foot. He ducked again quickly as Martin raised his pistol.
Craig's hand was sticky from the blood that was flowing down his arm. A sliver of rock must have shot from the boulder and split the flesh. He pressed his fingers firmly against the wound, stemming the flow of blood. With his teeth he pulled at the sleeve of his shirt, fraying the cotton until he could leave the wound with his right hand and rip most of the sleeve off. The wound stung as Craig wrapped the cotton around it and knotted it. Probably the piece of rock was still in the wound, but Craig had no time to make an inspection. He risked another glance around the rock, being careful to stick his head out in a different position. He had to duck back rapidly, as Martin was ready. It was unnerving to see a pistol but hear no sound. All around, the cliffs reverberated with the roar of the river, and in that din a gunshot was only a small element. Wet through, he hugged the back of the rock and shivered.
It was stalemate. He could not advance on Martin without the certainty of being shot, nor could Martin fight his way back up against that current to where Craig was hidden. Craig felt calm once he realized that. He drew his waterproof bag out of his parka and lit up a cigarette. All at once the knowledge came to him that he was doomed. He was in a trap. What a fool he had been. All that Martin needed to do was to negotiate the next rapid, beach his canoe, and wait for Craig to descend. He would be an easy target, as he would have to give all his attention to the rapid if he were to get through. If Martin positioned himself at the bottom of the rapid, there would be little chance of escape. There was no hope. Nonsense, thought Craig. There is always hope. Many times in the mountains he had been in situations from which he had thought there was no escape.
He glanced quickly out again. Martin had his boat in the water and was about to set off. He had realized that he could not force Craig from his position. Perhaps he would just try to get down the river before Craig and not try to ambush him. That was a possibility, though a slim one. Suddenly it came to Craig that his only hope lay in speed. If he could get to the rapid shortly behind Martin, then he might be through before Martin had a chance to gain a favorable position. He thrust his head out again. Martin was fully in his boat and without a backward glance was paddling for the head of the rapid. Craig took a long drag at his cigarette and tossed it away. He wrestled the canoe off the rocks and dropped it into the water with a splash. Paddle in one hand, he slithered and slid down to join the boat and clambered aboard, almost upsetting it in his haste. As he paddled his torn arm smarted, but Craig ignored it.
The head of the rapid advanced upon him and the roar of the waters seemed to swell even louder, seething in a ceaseless turmoil. He paddled like one possessed. This time he would not be able to ease the boat down the rapid, gliding it from side to side to avoid dangers. Speed was essential, and he must present a fast-moving target to Martin. Down the great wedge of water he charged, heaving against the river with the blade of his paddle, seeing the shaft bend with the strain. The sheer walls raced past, a blur in his vision. His eyes were fixed on the water ahead, white and frothy as it dashed over the uneven bottom.
A rock loomed up, parting the current like the bow of some great vessel. Craig felt the hull of the canoe scrape momentarily on the rough rock, then he was past, dropping over small falls and plunging through waves as high as a man. His speed was frightening and his whole world one of noise and confusion. The canoe swung and reared, and once it tipped as Craig swerved from a jagged rock. The gunwale went deep into the foam and cold water cascaded into the boat. With a supreme effort Craig righted the canoe. Now it was almost half full of water, and as it slopped from one side to another it threatened to founder. If the rapid continued much longer all would be lost. The canoe was not designed for cascades like this. Its deck was open, and every wave inundated it.
Craig could see no end. Just ahead he was being swept down on the biggest wave he had encountered. His mind forced his aching muscles to the challenge. Blood had begun to seep from the wound on his arm again, and the cotton sleeve was a dull pink. As he hit the wave the boat seemed to stop dead and the water in the bottom rushed forward. Craig paddled frantically; slowly, like a dying horse, the canoe lifted its head up, up to the crest, in a painful, agonizing motion. He could feel the great wall of water sweep under him, and then he was on the other side, sluggishing rolling down to the trough. A rock lay ahead, almost barring his path. In desperation he flailed the water, dragging the boat from its headlong charge toward it. At the instant that he swept past it he saw in horror the ice-gray hull of a canoe pressed against the rock, held there by the gigantic force of the water. And a head, black hair streaming, appearing and disappearing.
Suddenly he felt a shock as his canoe struck a rock.
The water in the boat crashed forward, the boat swung around, the bow dived, and Craig felt himself fall sideways into the foam, scrabbling for a hold on the metal hull. For an instant he had it, then, pushed under, his lungs bursting, he was forced to let go and the boat was gone. As he bobbed up the banks raced past.
He could feel the strength ebb from his body, as though it were being sucked out of him. He struck out for the shore, wild with terror. As hard as he swam, the current was stronger, dragging at his feet insatiably. Craig almost gave up. His body could stand no more. He was dragged under again, pounded and battered by the river. His leg struck a rock and his feet pushed against it. As his head emerged, he saw a ledge of rock running out into the current just ahead. Gathering his energies, he made one last attempt at safety, forcing himself through the water. His hand struck rock. His nails scratched at it in desperation, and he was off again. Another try. This time his numb fingers found a hold, and he got his chest over a sharp edge.
For a second he lay there, life gradually returning and, with it, pain. He seemed to have been in the water for hours, but as he glanced back upriver he could see the large rock behind which Martin was trapped not thirty feet away. Martin! He must get to him. Still panting and shaking, he got to his feet and scrabbled his way back up the river over large mossy boulders, sliding and falling, crashing his aching limbs against the sharp stones. Martin must be drowned. He could not hang on there with the full force of the river tearing at him.
As he reached the rock he saw, incredibly, that Martin was still there. He had one arm wedged above him clear of the water, but he seemed to hang there lifeless. Craig could not see what he could do. The sides of the rock were smooth. Perhaps he could get some purchase, but to move the five feet out to where Martin hung would be unbelievably difficult, and when he got there, what could he do? Martin must be dead. His head was turned away from the land, and the water rose around it and fell away regularly. His arm must have wedged in that crack by some freak of chance or perhaps in his last desperate attempt to save himself.
And then, incredibly, the head moved around, slowly and eerily, and Martin looked full at Craig. His face was deathly white and his eyes black holes. His mouth was open, but he made no attempt to shout. A wave slopped up the rock and buried the black of his hair in the white foam. He emerged again, obviously gasping. He could not survive much longer. Craig was frantic. He could not reach Martin from above. He would have to inch out along the rock. There was no other way. He could not just turn his back and leave.
He started out, afraid to his core. Below him the water foamed and danced, waiting for a false move. The rock was rough and his feet held well, though there was little for his hands. He did not know what he could do, even once he got to Martin, but he had to try. Suddenly he found a good incut hold for his left hand that would allow him to reach Martin. He could see the blood dripping along Martin's upreached hand where it had grazed on the rock. Martin's fist was wed
ged in a narrowing of the crack. He looked soundlessly up at Craig, his head on a level with the latter's boots.
The only solution, Craig thought, was to free Martin's arm and drop him into the river, where he would be swept down. Then he would have a chance. In this position he would die surely and slowly. He reached out and grasped his wrist where it emerged from the crack. Holding on with clenched fingers to his hold on the rock, he pulled upward at Martin's arm. It was stuck fast. Craig wrenched at it. Martin hung as if lifeless, and his flesh felt cold. Suddenly, with a jerk, the arm was out, and Craig was pulled sideways off the rock. He still had one foot on and a good handhold above, but as his right side swung into the air over the boiling water, he felt himself slipping under Martin's weight. Before he could release Martin he was off, falling like a stone.
The water closed over his head, and for a moment he panicked. Without knowing it, he still had a firm grasp on Martin's wrist. The green water bubbled around him, silent and furious. Suddenly he realized that he was not moving downstream but gyrating and tumbling just under the rock, water gushing into his nostrils and tearing at his body. He let go and felt the moving current seize him again.
His head broke surface and he gasped, getting a mouthful of water with the air. He felt nothing. No pain. No fear. It was as if he had finally given in to the river and was being swept along on its back.
A wave pushed him down, down into the green depths, lungs bursting. A strange, unreal world. Up. Breath. Craig felt a warmth slide over him. There was nothing left in him. No struggle. Calm. Quiet.
Chapter 17
QUIET. Calm. Hardness. On his stomach. He wished it away. No more struggle. He was at peace. No more decisions. Hardness on his stomach. Solidity. Must move. Can't. Headaches. Quiet. Heat. He moved. Pain tore at his side. No. No more struggle. Lie still. Relax.
Life flowed back. Pain. In his head and chest. He opened his eyes. Light. White. Glaring. Closed again. Peace. Must move. No. Quiet. He opened his eyes. Blink. Close. Open. Light. Rock. Rock. Rock! Patterns of light. Dancing. Hot. Quiet. Water lapping. Water. A shudder shook his body. Eyes open. Blink. Bright. Patterns of light and shade. Rock hot to the touch. White fingers. White rock.
He dragged himself forward, pain swelling to fill his being. Stop. Peace. Don't move. Must. He brought one arm to his side. Push. He rolled onto his back.
Above, the huge cliffs stretched to the sky. And in the sky, the sun. A hot, bright ball. Colors exploded in his eyes. Like a descent to the valley after days in the snow. Rich browns, cool greens, and fiery reds. Fifty feet up, a mountain ash clung, a green splash against the white rock. Below it, a dark shadow. No feeling in his legs. Must move. He rolled back, head grazing the rough rock. He panted. Pulling with his hands, he moved a foot. Water lapping. No roaring. Water lapping, not roaring. He twisted his head. His feet were still in the water, hanging over the shelf on which he lay. He lay. He pulled again, scraping over the warm rock. He panted, chest sore from his exertions. Again, he rolled onto his back. The sun spun in its frame of cliff. Warmth. Pouring into his body.
Martin is dead. The thought sprang into his head without warning. He shuddered. A wave of nausea swept over him. Martin. Dead. White face. Black holes of eyes. Craig struggled to a sitting position. Below him the river flowed calmly. No rapids. No roaring. Light, sparkling water dancing in the sun. He twisted his head downstream. The cliffs tailed off, merging into dry hillside. The end of the river. A wide expanse of sun-bright hillside filled the horizon rolling toward the sky. The main Salmon River. A road.
Martin is dead. The scene flooded back to him. The rock. The face. Falling into the water. Martin's legs must have been trapped under the rock by the canoe. Suddenly, exploding from deep inside his throat, Craig felt a rush of sickness. He heaved and retched, shudders shaking his body. Gasping for air. And then it was past. He leaned back, feeling the warm rock. He must get out. He had nothing. No food. No canoe. No sleeping bag. Nothing. He could feel life return to his legs. Craig tried to rise. Slowly. Painfully. It was too soon. He eased himself back to the rock. He lay there, panting. Far above his head, wheeling and rising, a large hawk soared, its white tail feathers catching the sun. Suddenly it swooped, a black dot hurtling toward the hillside, quickly lost from view.
Winter was approaching. Soon the great cliffs would be shrouded in snow. But the river would run. Deep under its mantle of ice it would bubble and froth, unseen, unheard. Martin was a part of that world now. The long winter months and the spring floods rushing down the canyon would leave no trace of what had happened in the fall. Craig thought of the money, rolled along, pummeled, pounded, and torn at, the soggy paper gradually disintegrating. Running with the great river to the sea.
Slowly Craig eased himself again to his feet, shaky and weak. On the rock the wet patch he left began to shrink under the sun. Before him the gorge opened out, bathed in the clear light. The bank of the river was broken but passable. Slowly, painfully, he began to move downriver. It would be a long way back. But he was free. He felt no joy, no jubilation; but a great calm spread through him, salving his cut arm and his bruised body. The river sang in his ears. A sweet song.
