by Vella Munn
The canoe topped the crest of a wave that threatened to spin it broadside. Michon quickly rotated her shoulders toward the water and reached out to catch a piece of the retreating wave. By twisting her torso around as far as possible and increasing the angle of the paddle bite, she was actually able to slow the canoe slightly and still maintain stability.
The strain in her shoulders made her cry out from the effort, but she didn’t let up. As they reached the climax of the drop she decided to slow the canoe a little to minimize the slap into the final wave trough. She jammed the paddle vertically into the water, prying up and forward, literally letting the boat down. In the moment of rest that gave her, Michon threw back her head to toss her wet hair out of her eyes. Harry’s back was a misty blur; she could barely make out the outline of the canoe ahead of her.
“Rock!” Harry called out, pointing with his paddle. Michon ground her teeth together, plunged her paddle into the water close to the canoe for a stem pry designed to turn the canoe to the right. Harry’s task was to swing his paddle across the bow and plant it well out from the opposite side of the canoe. For an instant Michon feared he wouldn’t be up to his job, but at the last moment the canoe turned right, just missing the rock.
She’d scarcely drawn a breath when Harry yelled again. Michon compensated quickly. This time she twisted to her left and again plunged her paddle into the water. “Hang on!” she cried, because there was no way she could keep a clamp on her emotions.
Harry started to reach out to his right in preparation for sweeping his paddle back toward the canoe, but as the blade touched the water he froze. Michon heard his strangled cry of pain; there was nothing she could do.
She never saw the rock they hit, but the force of its impact sent waves through her body. Instinctively she tried to lower her body into the canoe, but the bow end was rising, recoiling from the impact.
Michon was thrown back, hitting the water with her back and head. She drew in a deep breath, pulled herself into a ball, and surrendered to the water’s force as it pulled her under.
A moment later she was on the surface again. The current was pulling at her from all directions, drawing her relentlessly downstream. She whipped her head about, looking for Harry, but all she could see was the splintered bow of the canoe as it bounced down the river ahead of her. Most of the canoe’s contents were still securely in it, but there was no sign of Harry.
For some reason she didn’t understand, Michon wasn’t afraid. She was securely in the grip of the current, but as long as she kept her arms and legs tight against her body, she was in little danger. She didn’t try to fight the water. Somehow she’d been thrown into the river’s main current. Mercifully there were no more rocks waiting for her to be smashed against.
Michon didn’t deny her helplessness. There was no way she could fight her way out of her captor’s grip. But the river was a gentle master. It bore her steadily through the rapids, shaking her a little but leaving her unbruised. As the shoreline rushed past her, Michon’s mind focused on Harry, not her own safety. Where was he? Had he hit any of the rocks?
Almost as quickly as it had begun, her roller-coaster ride ended. Michon sensed the lessening of the river’s grip as the rapids gave way to quiet water. She lifted her head, dog-paddling as she took her bearings. Her clothes hung heavily on her, but the life vest kept her from going under. She swam toward the shore, her arms tired but still willing to accept the command of her brain.
She’d pulled herself onto the shore and was starting to sit up when she heard the shouts. Turning quickly, Michon focused on the figures in the water. They were too far away for her to see their faces, but it wasn’t hard to make out the life vests belonging to Chas and Harry. Chas was carrying Harry in a lifesaving hold designed to keep the older man’s head above water. Not far from them was the damaged wooden canoe and the one Chas had been using.
Michon staggered into the water, reaching for the swimmers as the river lapped at her chest. By reaching out as far as she could, she managed to wrap her fingers around the fastenings on Harry’s vest. It was then that she saw that his eyes were closed, his body limp. “He’s been hurt!” she gasped.
“You’re damn right he’s hurt!” Chas shouted. “Get back. I can handle him.”
But Michon held on, supporting Harry as Chas got his feet under him. She didn’t let go until she was sure Chas was capable of floating Harry to shore without her help. Once again she collapsed on the shore, her legs unable to support her anymore.
“What happened?” she gasped as Chas knelt before Harry and rolled the older man onto his back.
“He hit the rocks.”
Michon started to open her mouth, but closed it instead. Chas was pressing his ear against Harry’s chest. Was he breathing? How badly had he been hurt?
The answer was supplied without a word being spoken. Chas quickly turned Harry onto his side, tipping his head so water could run out of his mouth. He’d begun artificial respiration while Michon was still struggling to loosen Harry’s life vest.
For several minutes the only sound except for the hum of the river came from Chas as he breathed for the older man, alternately placing his mouth over the slack one and then listening for the release of air from Harry’s lungs. Michon was aware of others joining them, someone swimming out to retrieve the two loose canoes, but nothing mattered except the life and death struggle before her. If only there were something she could do to help!
Finally, when it seemed she would burst from the tension, Harry coughed, choked, and started to breathe on his own.
Chas rocked back on his heels and turned toward Michon. He said nothing, but his eyes raked over her sodden form. Michon knew that he would find a thoroughly drenched, tired, but healthy young woman.
“Harry?” Chas said, turning back toward the teacher. “How are you? Are you hurt?”
“Of course he’s hurt,” Michon spluttered. She hated the high, tinny sound in her voice, but she felt like a coiled spring about to snap. She’d been there the day a heart attack had claimed her grandfather. She knew how close they’d come to facing death today. “Leave him alone.”
“Leave him alone?” Again Chas turned on her. “You didn’t see him hit that rock. I did. Why the hell—”
“Why the hell what?” Michon challenged, but Chas didn’t respond.
He’d leaned forward again, his ear close to Harry’s mouth as the older man whispered something. “He thinks he’s broken a rib,” Chas bit out. “Why the hell didn’t you keep to the right? Was it too much to ask? You said you could handle things.”
He was blaming her! Did Chas really think she’d do something to endanger either herself or Harry? “That’s right!” she spat out. “Blame me. If I’d been sitting in your canoe like a dutiful little girl this wouldn’t have happened. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
Chas ignored her. “Don’t move,” he ordered Harry. “We’ll get you out of these wet things. Maybe we can see if anything’s broken.”
Michon reached out to help, but Chas pushed her aside. “You’ve done quite enough,” he hissed.
Michon surged to her feet. It wasn’t fair! Chas didn’t know that it was Harry and not she who had given out. “Don’t blame me. I won’t stand for it!”
“Someone’s got to assume responsibility for this,” Chas pointed out, his attention focused on Harry’s needs.
“And I’m the scapegoat? Grow up, Chas! You’re not always right!”
“What?” Chas’s eyes were searing brands of volcanic fire. “What did you say?”
“I said, grow up!”
For a moment Chas’s eyes seemed capable of destroying the spark of life within her. “That’s what I thought you said,” he growled in a voice that sounded like the thud of earth falling on a casket. “Get out of here, Michon. I don’t need you.”
Michon staggered back. She shuddered, trying to throw off the terrible effects of Chas’s suddenly coal-black eyes, the deadly thunder of his words.
Was it only the emotion of the moment, or was there a final, cruel reality to the cold iron bars she felt sliding into place between them?
What had she said? What had she done?
It was an accident. She’d reacted to the rapids, the rock, the way Chas had taught her. They’d still be in the canoe if Harry’s strength hadn’t given out.
But this wasn’t the time to tell Chas that. He was intent on Harry’s injuries. She felt as if she’d been tossed away like some vile creature he couldn’t stand being around.
But she couldn’t leave. Michon slipped closer, staying out of Chas’s reach, but still able to watch what was happening. Chas had unbuttoned Harry’s shirt and was running gentle fingers over the older man’s chest. Michon didn’t need anyone to tell her the reason for the swollen welt on Harry’s side. A rib, or ribs, had been broken.
Michon’s legs threatened to collapse, and she was forced to lower her head to bring blood to her brain. Her body was trembling, reminding her of the strain she’d subjected it to. But giving in to exhaustion would have to wait. Finding out the extent of Harry’s injuries was the overriding concern.
There was a large circle of teens around Harry by the time Chas finished his examination. “He’s going to need to get to a hospital,” Chas said. “We’re going to have to make a litter for him.”
“There’s no hospital around here,” someone pointed out. “There’s not even a road.”
Chas pointed. “There’s a park north of here. It’s on a hard-surfaced road. We’ll carry him there and flag down a car. Then we can get to Antelope.”
“What about the canoes, our gear? Someone’s going to have to stay with that,” Michon pointed out.
Chas turned on her, eyes still flashing their ebony lights. “I’m aware of that. Even we children have some sense of responsibility. I’ll take three of the boys with me. We’ll take turns carrying the litter. The rest of you are to wait here until we return. Do you understand that?”
“I don’t think—” Michon started.
“Do you understand?” Chas’s words left no room for argument. “We’ll continue this expedition as soon as Harry’s on his way to a hospital. I took on this responsibility. I’m not going to back out now.”
Michon clamped a lid on her words. Something in Chas’s eyes, the way the muscles in his neck showed up taut and corded, warned her that further speech would result in another outburst. What was going on inside him? Michon wasn’t questioning Chas’s competency. That was something she’d never do. But now, obviously, wasn’t the time to tell him that.
Michon shook off the effect of Chas’s words and focused on Harry. She knelt beside the teacher and lifted his head onto her lap. “We didn’t pull that off very well, did we?” she quipped in an effort to erase the dazed, pain-filled look from the older man’s face.
“I’ve done better,” he responded. “Are you okay? I really blew it!”
Michon placed restraining fingers on Harry’s strangely cold lips. “Don’t talk about it. We’ll assess responsibility later. It was an accident. It could have happened to anyone.”
“No. It wouldn’t have happened—” Harry started but Michon stopped him.
“It wouldn’t have happened if someone had moved that rock. I just wish it weren’t so far to the hospital. That’s going to be a hard trip for you.”
Harry managed a wink. “I wanted something to take my mind off my shoulder. This, however, wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Michon stepped back as Chas leaned forward to talk to Harry. She was struck by the contrast between his angry words for her and the gentle, patient tones he used to talk to the teacher. She stayed with Harry while Chas fashioned a litter for him, and then held his hand as he was gently lifted onto it. Chas and one of the strongest boys were ready to lift Harry off the ground before Chas talked to her again. When he did, his voice held no hint that they’d ever been lovers.
“I don’t know if we’ll be back before morning. It depends on what we find when we get to the park. I have to put you in charge.”
“Don’t worry. I can handle it.”
“That’s right. You aren’t a child. You’re grown-up.” Michon could only stare at Chas as he lifted the sides of the litter in his strong hands and headed north. Accusing him of not having grown up was simply a momentary emotion, words lashed out in the aftermath of the experience she’d just been through. It didn’t mean anything. Surely he understood that.
But maybe he didn’t.
Chapter Twelve
The hours until dark left Michon with little time to dwell on the angry words she and Chas had exchanged. The teenagers were excited by the accident, and most of them found it necessary to tell her what they’d seen, what they’d done—all in tones loud enough to make her head throb. Michon heard at least two versions of how Harry had been injured. Some insisted Harry was still in the canoe when it hit the rock while others maintained that he’d been thrown into the water, the same as Michon, and had been sucked into a current heading for a rock.
Michon could only shudder as she heard the story repeated again and again. She would have given anything to be able to spare Harry what he’d gone through, and yet a part of her was relieved that she hadn’t seen him dashed against the rocks. Finally Michon decided that the young people had spent enough time rehashing the day’s accident. It was time to get on to other things.
“How about taking inventory?” she asked in a voice designed to command everyone’s attention. “I want to know if anything’s still in the river. After that”—she softened her tones slightly—“I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m about to starve.”
Michon was impressed by the teenagers’ inclination to follow her directions. She’d been hesitant about taking over Harry’s leadership role, but there was no alternative. Now she realized that somewhere along the line she’d gained their respect. For once there was no teasing, no horseplay. When they had to, the teens knew how to attend to business. In less than an hour all of the canoes and their belongings had been lined up along the shore, and two of the boys were using strips of duct tape to repair dings in the canoe Chas had abandoned.
Michon supervised dinner and the cleaning up, and then freed her charges to do any exploring they might want to, as long as they stayed out of the river and were back at camp by dark. Although her arms ached and her legs felt strangely weak, Michon was unable to sit still.
On foot Michon followed the river’s path for perhaps a mile, her mind aimlessly recording the bend in the river that turned it north. She hung her camera around her neck and clambered up a rock that provided her with a view of the river from above. She took several pictures, and when the setting sun turned the landscape a rosy hue, she recorded that too.
The sun had set and the night wind had a chill to it by the time she turned back toward camp, but she didn’t hurry. Last night she’d been with Chas. It was lonely, hollow, without him.
No! Michon shook her head. She wasn’t going to think about Chas. Either they’d patch up what had gone wrong with them, or they wouldn’t. Nothing was going to change by her going over and over their fight. Tomorrow, when he returned, would be soon enough.
Michon had to admit that she felt relieved when she counted and realized that all of her charges were back in camp. In her babysitting days she’d had to worry about kids fighting with each other. Her concerns this moonlit night were different. Didn’t she already know of the spell the moon was capable of casting?
Michon rummaged through Harry’s belongings until she came upon a rather dog-eared book called Oregon Trails. She glanced through it, delighted to find it wasn’t a dry history lesson. Rather, the book was made up of a collection of pioneer diaries and old letters. She called the group around her and started reading to them. At first she heard groans and protests that this wasn’t supposed to be school, but as she read of the lives of Oregon pioneers, she realized that whispered conversations had ceased and everyone’s attention was on her. She made no attemp
t to correct the flawed English in the diaries and letters. Instead she made a point of how little formal education was available, especially for girls, during the eighteen-eighties. Her class listened in silence until Michon was finished with an account written by the Applegate family as they came south through Oregon. Her voice faltered slightly as she came across what had been written on the day a twelve-year-old Applegate boy lost his life while his father and uncles watched helplessly.
“And Mr. Applegate went ahead and homesteaded in southern Oregon?” one of the girls asked. “I couldn’t. I’d turn around and go back.”
“To what?” Michon asked. “He’d sold his farm. Everything the family owned was with them. They had no choice but to go on.”
“But to see your son die! I don’t know how they did it.’’
“I don’t either,” Michon admitted. “I didn’t give it much thought when I was taking history in school, but those were real people we were reading about. This”—she held up the book—“makes it much more real.”
“I wish I’d had history introduced like this,” Roger Parker said. “Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten a D.”
Someone started to tease the handsome athlete, pointing out that the only class he didn’t have trouble with was physical education, but as Michon let the teens talk about what they liked and didn’t like about school, she found her own mind drawing away from the conversation. Why hadn’t her teachers made more use of personal accounts such as those in Harry’s books? Of course that wasn’t always possible, but she couldn’t help but toy with the idea of seeing the rise and fall of the Roman Empire through the eyes of a soldier or slave, or even one of the emperors, instead of placing so much emphasis on dates and events.
That’s what she’d do if she were teaching history to today’s kids. She’d help her students see that history was nothing more than people living out their lives in the past. Those people might be dead, but their stories, their tragedies, and their successes could still be brought to life. The lessons they’d learned could be used today.
