The Death of Alan Chandler (The Red Lake Series Book 1)

by Rich Foster

  Time stopped. The only sound was a maddeningly slow thump that his ears failed to comprehend as his heart. His feet rose and fell but were seemingly locked into slow motion. It was like being trapped in a dream where the more he tried to run the slower he went. His foot twisted off a rock he had stepped on. His body turned and fell, badly spraining his ankle. Mindlessly he struggled to his feet, but his ankle sent a jolt of pain up his leg and stopped his forward progress. Then the world rushed up to meet him. His right arm made a hideous crack as both bones snapped when he slammed into the ground. His head received a bruising blow. Alan lay twitching on the ground. At times his body would involuntarily retch, followed by such intense stomach pain that it sucked him up into a fetal position. When at last unconsciousness found him, it was a merciful release.

  Alan lay in a coma for twenty - four hours. His breathing was shallow and his coloring ashen. His body had done it’s best to evacuate the poison and he lay in his own filth. Covered by mud, vomit, and dried blood, his clothes badly torn, he was hardly recognizable as human. If he were an animal, any hunter would have felt obligated to “put him down.”

  Alan saw a dazzling bright light. So this is death he thought. But when he tried to move, he was racked by pain. Surely there’s no pain after death he thought. When he squinted, he realized that it was the sun he was seeing. He tried to move again, but it seemed an insurmountable task.

  “Are you dying?” a disembodied voice asked.

  Alan turned his head. Ralphie sat nearby, his knees pulled up under his chin.

  “Not yet, but soon I think.”

  “See any tunnels or bright lights?”

  “No, Ralphie, not a thing. Just the sun.”

  “What happened?”

  “I thought the onions were poisonous, but it was the berries!”

  “Can you move?”

  Alan tried to move and pain rocketed up his arm. He lifted his head and found he was seeing double. He looked at his arm that lay at an odd angle. The limb was swollen like a bloated fish. He let his head fall back down “I don’t think so. Not yet. Maybe never!” Alan’s lips were parched. He tried licking them, but his tongue was dry.

  “I just want some water Ralphie.”

  But Ralphie was merely a hallucination and couldn’t help. Somewhere nearby he heard the sound of water. With an effort he forced himself to sit up. He grasped his broken arm with his good hand as pain racked his body. He rose to his knees, and then tried to stand. But he found himself balancing on one leg because the other ankle was too sore too put weight on. He tried to hop. The jouncing of his arm was unbearable, so he stopped. A world of double images danced before his eyes. Attempting to lower himself to his knees he slipped and fell. Landing on his broken arm, he felt a stabbing burst of pain, saw a burst of white light, and passed out.

  When he awoke the shadows were getting long. As he lay there on the forest floor, Alan knew he was literally dying for a drink. He forced himself up onto his knees, and then with his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached, he began to crawl. Alan found himself sobbing as each move brought pain. But, more than that, he sobbed with frustration. He had come so far and now he knew the end was at hand. “Just don’t let me die of thirst”, he thought. Ahead in the shadow of the trees Alan saw Ralphie.

  “Com’on Alan. You can make it!” Like a marathon runner coming down the home stretch Ralphie cheered the bedraggled and broken figure that crawled through the mud and brush. He cheered wildly as Alan flung his face into a dirty puddle of water and lapped water up like a dog.

  Alan forced himself to a sitting position beside a tree. From somewhere the sound of fresh water trickling over rocks reached him. But wherever it was it was too far away. He was broken. His will was spent. What mental reserves he possessed had slowly been depleted in the woods. It seemed unlikely he would survive another night without fire, while suffering from shock, malnourishment, and exposure. And if not tonight, he thought, then death would come tomorrow or the next day. With resigned acceptance he embraced the fact that he was dying here in this spot in the woods. He also accepted the fact that Ralphie seemed as real as the rocks and trees.

  “We’re not going to make it, are we?” Ralphie asked.

  “No. I think this is the end. But we put up a good fight, didn’t we.”

  Ralphie nodded silently as tears filled his eyes.

  “You know she was right!”

  ”Who?”

  “The lady in the book. She said when the time came there would be acceptance.”

  Ralphie and Alan sat silently as the sky was turning golden and the trees took on the deep rich hues they only obtain at sunset.

  “It’s strange to think this is the last sunset I will ever see. That this tree is one of the last things I will touch. And that this field grass is the last thing I might smell.” Alan reached over to a pile of grass around a bolder and plucked it. He smelled its earthiness and then dropped it on the ground.

  Then Alan suddenly gasped, “Ralphie, look! It’s a wheel” It’s a damn wheel.” Where he had plucked the grass lay a trailer wheel its rubber tread clearly visible in the late afternoon light. Alan blubbered with joy. “It’s a damn wheel!”

  “So?”

  “Wheels are on cars! And where there are cars there are roads. And wheels roll downhill!”

  Alan looked around wildly. He was on a gentle slope that climbed steeply up the bank behind him. The wheel had to have come from there. Alan turned and began to crawl. He scrambled like an animal through the brush. Sobbing he clawed his way up the slope. Pain burst time and again in his head like a mad fireworks display, but he forced himself on. There had to be a road. It had to be close.

  When he saw the glint of sunlight off a windshield he began laughing hysterically. Alan was teetering on the edge of sanity as he pushed his way through the last patch of brush. He more slithered than crawled into the clearing. But instead of a seeing a car he saw the wreckage of a small airplane. His laughter of joy dissolved into demented howling. Lost in his personal hell of despair he lay curled up in a fetal position wailing.

  Something poked him. Opening his eyes he saw double images of a one leg and a crutch. Something poked his side again and he scrunched away from its point like a frightened animal. Looking up he saw the split image of a grizzled old man leaning hard on the crutch and a spear clutched in the other.

  “Help!” Alan managed to whisper. “Please help me!”

  “Lordy me! You are human!” said the voice. After weeks of only his own voice he fell back into tears to hear another human voice. He lay on the ground, a tattered heap like an overgrown wreckage. Then a strong hand seized him by his collar and dragged him across the ground. Alan was too week to resist. But the journey was rough start and stop jerks as the one legged man dragged him around the plane, where on the other side there was a small fire. Then the hand let him go and he slumped back to the ground and lay on his back. But then the man was back. Alan felt his head lifted and a pad was put under it. He felt water at his lips.

  “Can you swallow?” the voice asked.

  Alan tried to nod and failed. He felt water at his lips and swallowed hungrily.

  “Take these, if you can. They’re hydrocodone. It’s a painkiller. You’re going to need them if I’m going to set your arm.” Alan felt two pills on his tongue, when the water came he swallowed. Soon he was drifting off, floating away carried on a sense of well-being. But the dream turned unpleasant. He was prodded and poked by unknown things. His ankle was on fire. He tried to move it but something was held him down. A fat thumb like a large stick pulled his eyelid open and once again he saw the double image of a head against a crimson colored sky. When the thumb let go he tried to keep his eyes open but it was easier to let himself slip away into the darkness. Pain seemed to float at him from the void. His arm burned as though poked with a branding iron. Time and again the red-hot iron seemed to jab him. And lightening bolts flashed in his brain. But then the fire in his arm died out and Al
an began to drift again. He let himself be swept away into a carnival of confused dreams.

  Alan succumbed to fever. For three days he thrashed on the ground as the grizzled stranger tried to keep him subdued. Alan ranted in his feverish sleep while this unknown stranger bathed his head with cool cloths and poured water between his lips. After three days Alan’s body seemed to go slack, the tension flowed out of it and his tormented twitching subsided. His breathing became slow and regular. The fever was broken but so was Alan. The poisoning and fever had left his body a gaunt frame. Beneath his bushy beard were sunken cheeks; his eyes were dark hollows in his face. An ashen grey seemed to underline his tanned skin.

  The old man sat down in an airplane seat that he had removed from the plane. Looking down at the sleeping figure he tried to guess his age. He might easily be in his mid to late forties, but it was hard to tell beneath the grime. A malodorous vapor hung around Alan. The stranger had not removed Alan’s soiled clothes; it had been enough difficulty to simply avoid being hit by the cast when Alan had flailed in his sleep.

  The glade was peaceful. Smoke from the campfire drifted lazily skyward to be scattered amongst the foliage. In the trees birds chirped and called to one another, fluttering back and forth in mating dances or busily building nests. In the dried leaves on the ground was the occasional rustle of a chipmunk or lizard scuffling about. A faint breeze ruffled the bright new leaves in the crown of the trees, stirring the warm June air. An occasional fly would buzz by and the stranger would wave it off, like a horse flicking its tail as it patiently stood in its field. Time passed and the sun crept across the sky.

  The old man eyed Alan carefully. He listened to Alan’s even breathing. At last, satisfied that Alan was deeply asleep, he stood up. He slipped a vinyl bag on his shoulder. The sack was fashioned from the back of a seat and the strap came from harness wiring. The man walked nimbly enough on his crutch and one leg. The empty pants leg rolled up and pinned by his knee. He followed a well-worn path into the woods and descended slowly until fifty yards later he came to a deep fast flowing stream. Lying in the shallows was a fish trap made fast to a tree by a length of rope. It was made from sticks lashed together and tied with wire and willow branches. Pulling with worn but powerful hands, the old man hoisted the cylindrical trap up on the bank Water gushed out of the trap and flowed back to the stream. When the basket was up ended, a group of fish remained in the basket. He reached in and scooped them up and dropped them in his pocket. He then lowered the bag he carried into the stream and let it fill with water. He shouldered the bag and hobbled back toward his camp. As he walked water dribbled from the seams but it held water well. Occasionally his large jacket pockets would dance as the dying fish flopped desperately seeking water.

  When he returned to camp, Alan continued to slumber while the fish were gutted, filleted, and roasted over the fire. The man ate alone as Alan slept through lunch and on into the afternoon. The old man passed the time by tying fly fishing lures. He held the hook in a pair of vise grips and tied the lures using line, pieces of fur, bits of feathers and even some plants. When he was satisfied with one, he would hook it onto a piece of cardboard, which held a diversity of lures that mimicked many real or at least believable insects.

  It was dusk when Alan finally stirred. He murmured in his sleep and began to shrug and twist. No longer was it the writhing of a fevered body but the wakening of a body both stiff and sore from hard use. His eyes slowly opened. He brought his hand up to rub his face, but instead found himself struck in the face by something hard. When his eyes fully opened he saw his arm was encapsulated in dried mud. Sticks protruded from the ends. He was wearing an adobe cast. Exploring himself as if it were a foreign land he felt his head with his good hand, wincing as the fingers found the lump on his skull. Alan moved his legs out from under the animal skin that covered him. His ankle was wrapped tightly in rags; he tried to rotate it but it was held firmly in place.

  Alan looked around, a visitor to a strange land. He was surprised to find himself alive. His gaze took in the plane and the campfire. He touched the animal fur that covered him. Mostly things stayed in focus, except for when he turned his head too quickly then the world slipped into a double image for a minute. Not far off, next to the fire, the split image of the grizzled old man slowly became one. Alan had a vague memory of this man staring down at him. They contemplated each other silently. After a few minutes, Alan’ face scrunched up in distaste as he looked around.

  “What stinks?” he asked, picking up the animal fur and sniffing at it.

  The old man grinned broadly. “That would be you boy! You all smell like shit and I don’t mean that figuratively!” he said letting out laughter that rolled along like distant thunder. “If you can get up it would be best if you got yourself out of those clothes. You’ve been lying there for the better part of three days.”

  Alan braced himself against the side of the plane and stood up. It took a supreme effort of his will. However he was spurred on by the stench that surrounded him.

  “Why don’t you strip down over there, son,” said the man as he pointed to the downwind side of the clearing. “I’ll bring some hot water over to you and you can clean up. “I’ve got some clothes we can try on you. While you wash, I’ll tie your clothes on a line and throw them in the river. The current will scrub them fairly clean by morning.

  Alan limped over and leaned against a gnarled old oak tree. Slowly he extricated himself from his clothes. It was with infinite gratitude he watched the old man carry them away. The water in the pot was very hot. To wash, he had to let the washrag cool in the air before he could use it. Using only one hand, it proved to be a slow process.

  The old man stayed away, giving his house guest a bit of privacy. Night was growing by the time Alan was bathed and dressed. A few weeks ago the old man’s jeans would have been just fine around his waist. Now he had to take up the slack with a belt made from a piece of wire. They were far too long for him so he rolled up the cuffs. The flannel shirt hung wide and loose on his frame. Alan had not realized just how large the old man was and it surprised him.

  The effort to wash and dress left him exhausted. He limped over to the fire, which put out a healthy warmth. It seemed presumptuous to take the old man’s chair, so Alan sat down on the animal skin. Overhead the stars sparkled in the night sky. The darkness was almost complete when he heard a softly whistled tune, floating through the woods, followed by the sound of the old man’s shuffle.

  The man loomed out of the darkness and came into the firelight. He pulled a wicker suitcase out of the fuselage. He eased his frame down into the plane seat. The man moved at his own pace and Alan was hesitant to fight it. He had innumerable questions, but he made the choice to wait and let the old man lead.

  The old man leaned forward and lifted a pot that hung over the fire.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “You have coffee?” said Alan in disbelief.

  “Chicory! You bake the root and grind it up. It makes a damn fine substitute for coffee.”

  “Sure,” Alan shrugged.

  The stranger opened the wicker suitcase. Inside was a dish set, each piece neatly stacked and strapped in its place. The man pulled out two cups and poured coffee from the steaming pot. He smiled. Nodding toward the picnic basket he said, “Not a necessity to survive in the woods but it sure is handy.”

  The coffee was surprisingly good.

  “I take it with some yellow birch sap. Try it if you like it sweet.” The man then poured viscous brown syrup into his cup. “Not as sweet as maple syrup but it still works well when it is rendered down.” They sipped in communal silence.

  Alan, surprisingly reticent, waited upon the man’s lead. At last the man spoke.

  “Well, I can’t say I was expecting visitors. At lest not until later this month. But it’s nice to have your company. My name is Karl Bjorn.” Karl held out a large weathered hand, which swallowed up Alan’s hand in its grasp.

  “Alan C
handler,” he replied. “How long have you been here?”

  “I involuntarily moved in here when my plane crapped out on me five weeks ago. I was hoping to find a clearing but finally I had to settle for going as close to a stream as possible. I glided in, pulled the nose up hard and let her settle into the treetops. The pines did a pretty fine job of easing me in. Then a big old fir cut half of my starboard wing off. She spun around like a top and slammed in here. The crash, damn near left the engine sitting in my lap.”

  “Five weeks??” asked Alan incredulously.

  “Heck son, the way you tell it you all have been here for three weeks and I had a lot more gear than you had.”

  “But you were in a plane! They should be looking for you!”

  “I doubt that. I took off from the grass strip on my ranch. I was flying south to surprise a friend; never bothered to file a flight plan. I don’t care much for the paper work. I don’t work the ranch anymore and I got no kinfolk, so there really isn’t anyone around to miss me.” Karl fell silent and messed with the fire.

  Time alone in the woods had made both men reticent. One would think that the opportunity to talk with another person would have them chatting nonstop. But their conversation had awkward starts and stops. Sometimes it just faded away. It was not from dislike, rather like two hound dogs sniffing around, they had to get used to each other.

  Karl finished messing with the fire and then put another pot on the fire.

  “You must be starving. I’ll heat up some stew.” As the stew began to bubble, the aroma of food began to tantalize and tease Alan’s nostril.

  “What about you, son? How is it you’re running around half dead out here? Did you get lost backpacking?”

  “My car went off the road and landed in the river. I was carried downstream. I was trying to find my way back up the river when I got lost.”