by Philip Roy
“Come on!” I yelled to myself. “Find it!”
With a lot of effort I managed to get back to the rocky shallows, pull myself up and make my way to shore. It was exhausting. But at least I was on dry land now. I could run along the bank and try to spot the sub.
That was very hard and very discouraging. Not only was the fog hanging around still, but the sky had darkened. It was going to rain. And though I was on the beach, there was no road beside the water. Farther east there was. I had seen it. But for now, I had to run along the rocky shore, and sometimes amongst trees and bushes.
And then, I thought I saw it. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I did. The water that poured into the sub must have pulled it down, and then, after the sump pumps removed that water, it rose again, but not quite to where it had been. There was also the current to account for. It could easily make the difference of a foot or so in the sub’s buoyancy. In any case, I thought I caught a glimpse of the top of the hatch in the growing choppiness. And if I had, I had an idea of how fast it was moving. I would have to run to keep up.
Inside the sub Hollie and Seaweed would be fine. I knew they would be sitting on their spots, well, except that Hollie’s blanket would be all wet, and Seaweed probably had hopped onto my cot. Hollie would be on it too, if the water had reached that far, but I couldn’t imagine it had. He could have climbed onto my seat though, or the bicycle seat. Hollie was a very smart dog and he was a survivor. The bigger danger was that the sub would collide with another vessel, especially one sailing upriver, especially a large one, like a freighter, that would not be able to turn quickly and would assume that the vessel heading towards it would swerve first. That was my biggest fear.
The only thing going in our favour at the moment was the fact that we had been sailing so close to the south side of the river, at least a mile from the main traffic area. But that would change when the sub approached the city once again, five miles downstream, where the river narrowed briefly to just half a mile wide at the bridges. Then, it narrowed once again at Levis, six miles farther downstream, then veered north a tiny way, then split in two, with the sail-able part of the river making a very sharp right turn and the rest of it flowing straight on into the shallows north of Isle-de-Orleans. The sub would never make that turn on its own. It would drift north until it struck bottom somewhere in the shallows and would be exposed in the low tide. But that’s only if it didn’t collide with another vessel along the way.
I ran along the shore and climbed over rocks and mud and went up and down hills and around tiny inlets but never caught another glimpse of the sub. Then, I found an old buoy. Running into the water as far as I could, I threw the buoy with all my might. The river grabbed it and pulled it along. Now I had something with which to gauge the speed of the current. Now I would be able to tell if I were keeping up with it.
I wasn’t! The shore was twisting around too much and it was too hard to run fast enough. I was growing more exhausted and feeling sicker in my stomach all the time. There had to be another way.
I reached a small road that ran alongside the river. The buoy was out of my sight now. Along the road were a few houses. Between two houses I saw a fence. Leaning against the fence was a bicycle.
I had never stolen anything in my whole life. I stared at the door of the house. It didn’t look like anyone was home. I thought it over quickly. I could run to the door and bang on it and wait for the owner to come out. Then, they might speak English and they might not. I would have to explain to them that I needed to borrow their bicycle but would bring it back. Why did I need it? To catch up with my submarine. Who was going to believe that?
I ran across the yard, grabbed the bicycle and jumped on it. As I rode out of the yard I heard someone come out of the house and yell after me. They chased me into the road and continued yelling. It was the first time I truly felt like an outlaw. Even then, I promised myself I would return the bicycle if I could. The truth was: I would do anything to save Hollie and Seaweed.
I raced down the street as fast as I could, and I was fast on the bike because of all the pedalling I did in the sub. My legs were very strong and I could pedal for hours if I had to, even when I was tired. But I was expecting somebody to come chasing me with a car. And they did. I also expected the road to swing away from the river and it did. But that worked in my favour because I kept going straight, right across the fields and through a wooded area, until I reached another street. There were little pockets of neighborhoods here and there, then nothing between but fields and woods. But eventually the road veered closer to the river. That’s where I knew they might catch me. They would call the police for sure. I was hoping to reach the bridges first. If I could get onto one of the bridges, I’d be able to spot the sub drifting below.
Two bridges crossed the St. Lawrence River at Quebec City. They lay side by side at the narrowest point in the river, just west of the city. I had seen them just that morning on our way up the river. The one on the downstream side was older, one of those big iron trestle bridges that you can see for miles and miles. The other one was just a long, flat concrete slab. Both were high above the river, too high for a person to jump from without getting killed. But the trestle bridge had iron arches that curved downward into the water. I had seen them clearly enough, even through the fog, and figured it was possible to climb down to a height from which I could jump without getting killed. I mean, it would be dangerous but it was possible.
I reached the road beside the river and I saw the buoy! Farther down the river the trestle bridge was barely visible. The sky was darkening and the fog was turning to heavier mist. I could feel it was going to rain.
I knew I was pedalling faster than the current because I passed the buoy easily. The sub couldn’t be more than half a mile ahead of that. If I could just reach the bridge, I’d have time to see it pass beneath. Then I could climb down the arches, jump into the water, regain the sub and rescue my crew. It was a good plan. And then, I heard a siren.
The road followed the river until the last two miles or so, when it veered to avoid a wooded area. I saw a trail enter the woods and I took it. As I disappeared into the trees I turned around and saw the lights of a police car on the road. Yikes! Had they seen me?
Where the trail came out of the woods was another neighbourhood with lots of streets and houses. I pedalled as close to the river as possible. The bridges were closer now. So was the wail of the police siren. They must have seen me enter the woods and guessed where I’d come out. If they caught me they would surely arrest me, and I’d go to jail, or at least some sort of correctional centre. I tried not to think about it. Nothing was going to stop me from trying to rescue Hollie and Seaweed.
The police car was racing through the neighbourhood. Sometimes its siren grew louder and sometimes fainter. They were searching for me. Probably they just thought I was trying to hide. Luckily they didn’t know where I was heading. I decided that if they saw me now, where they could easily catch me, I would race to the river and jump in. They would have to call rescue boats then, and that would take a while, and that would buy me some time. But my chances of finding the sub like that were pretty slim. I needed to get onto the bridge.
As I came to the very end of the last neighbourhood before the bridge, and rode to the end of the last street, I saw the police car pass in the other direction just one street up and heard its engine race after we passed each other. They had seen me. But they had to reach the end of that street, turn down one block and race up the street I had just crossed. That would take them at least half a minute. I raced onto the grass that led to the last wooded area. I jumped off and ran with the bike through the trees, where I found a dirt road. I climbed back on the bike and followed the road down and around and under the first bridge. I heard the siren again. The dirt road continued to the second bridge, the trestle bridge, and ended there. I jumped off the bike and ran up the hill to where the highway went onto the bridge. It was a steep hill and I was so out of breath my lungs wer
e burning. But I couldn’t allow them to catch me now.
It was raining when I climbed onto the bridge. There was a sidewalk there and a metal fence to keep people from falling, or jumping, I supposed. As I ran up the sidewalk my lungs and throat were burning. I looked down to where I had left the bike. The police car was there, its lights flashing, and a policeman was looking up in my direction. And he saw me.
As I raced up the sidewalk, trying to gauge how far from shore I was at each step, I remembered what Ziegfried had said about jumping into water from a height. From a couple of hundred feet, he had said, hitting the surface of the water was like hitting concrete. If you could hold your body perfectly straight and enter like a needle, you might survive. But it was extremely unlikely. If you landed flat, you would break every bone in your body.
Well, I had no intention of jumping from such a height. I would climb over the fence, scale down one of the arches and jump from a reasonable height.
The rain picked up and so did the wind. When I reached over and dug my fingers into the wire mesh of the bridge fence, a strange thought ran through my head. Was this what my life had come to, a fugitive running from the law? Was this what I was now? No, I told myself. No. This was not who I was. This was not what I had become. This was just a nightmare. As soon as this was over and I had regained my submarine, I would sail straight out to sea. I would get off this river and never come back. I would live my life without ever meeting my father. So what? I could live with unfinished business. Who really cares about that?
Heights, I had learned, always look worse from above. From below, they’re not such a big deal. Even that morning, as we had passed beneath the bridge, I remembered looking up and admiring its size but didn’t imagine it was as high as it appeared now. As I climbed over the fence onto a metal girder, I found the height terrifying. And I found shimmying down the girder terrifying, because there was no railing there, and the metal was wet and slippery and the wind tugged at me. But there were police sirens on the bridge, coming from both directions. There was no going back now.
As I shimmied down, I looked hard for any sign of the sub. The height was dizzying. I felt sick. I was afraid of falling.
“Just get closer!” I told myself.
I reached a kind of landing and felt safer there. The wind was starting to howl. I couldn’t tell if the sirens were still wailing or not. No one would come down after me, I was certain about that, but they would call for rescue boats. I shimmied down farther. The height was not so terrifying now but it was still dangerous. Where was the sub? How long before it would pass beneath? I shimmied farther. Once, I almost lost my grip and it scared me to death. I fought back the urge to break down and cry. Instead, I turned and looked at the river and yelled at it with all my might:
“GIVE ME BACK MY SUBMARINE!”
I saw a shadow in the water below. I heard a man yell from a megaphone above. Taking a deep breath, I jumped.
Chapter 17
I HIT THE WATER so much harder than I expected. It was what I imagined being hit by a car would feel like. The force ripped the sneakers from my feet. It would leave me with bruises on my back and legs, but I would deal with that later.
When I rose to the surface I was dizzy and could hardly see straight. It was raining harder now and very windy. Visibility was still poor. Once again I found it impossible to swim in the current; it was so much work just to stay afloat. But where was the sub? I swung my head around and could hardly see the bridge through the rain. It loomed above me like a dark shadow; the river was pulling me away quickly. I tried to look downriver. If rescue boats were coming, I couldn’t see them. Surely they wouldn’t come so quickly? Where, I wondered desperately, was the sub? I had to find it, I just had to. But I couldn’t see anything. Everything was fuzzy. And then, something appeared above me. How was that possible? It looked like an angel. Was it an angel? Was this what Sheba’s dream had been about? I was so confused.
I wiped my eyes and looked up at the wings flapping above me. My heart glowed. It was Seaweed. Oh my heavens, how wonderful to see him! He must have jumped from the sub before the hatch shut. Here he was, hovering in the air above me. He must have been wondering what the heck I was doing.
“Seaweed! Show me where the sub is! Show me the sub!”
He continued to flap his wings and hover above me. I thought of something else.
“Go find Hollie, Seaweed! Find Hollie!”
He raised himself higher in the air and flew a short distance away. I watched him land and could tell by the way he was sitting on the river that he was actually standing on something. The hatch!
I could swim underwater better than on the surface because that’s what I had trained myself to do. I took a deep breath, went under and swam as hard as I could across the current. I swam and swam, came up for air and went back under. The water was too dark to see through but when I came up for air I caught sight of Seaweed and corrected my direction. In a few minutes my hand struck the hard shell of the hull. I was so happy I could have cried. I think I did actually.
The top of the portal was level with the surface of the river. It jutted up a few inches then went under again. I found a handle, pulled myself over and opened the hatch. Water spilled inside, down on top of Hollie, who was staring up and barking excitedly. He scrambled out of the way. Seaweed dropped out of the air, landed on the edge of the open hatch and peered inside, uncertain whether or not to go in.
“Biscuits, Seaweed!” I said anxiously. “Biscuits!”
He looked at me sideways, questioning my sincerity. I said it again, more confidently. “Biscuits!”
He dropped inside. I pulled myself in after him, with lots of water, sealed the hatch, rushed to the control panel and flipped the dive switch.
We went down to periscope depth. I picked up Hollie and hugged him. He was very excited but perfectly okay. I scanned the radar screen. Three small boats were rushing towards our area. They were coming to rescue the young man who had just jumped from the bridge. I wished I could have explained to them that I was okay, but didn’t want to expose the sub. Maybe when they didn’t find a body they would figure that I had swum to safety. Or maybe they would assume the river had claimed another victim. Not this time. I checked the depth, dove to fifty feet, engaged the batteries and headed downstream.
My only thought was to get away. This river was far too dangerous. I didn’t want to disappoint Sheba but maybe Marie was right. Maybe the whole river was cursed. Look at all the people who had died on it. Sheba wouldn’t want me to die trying to find my father.
But I was too tired to go anywhere yet. Being tired was exactly how I had made the worst mistakes. I couldn’t afford to make any more. So, I motored back to the police marina, snuck in under the barges to the very same spot, but didn’t raise the portal above the surface. If anyone started the engine on the tugboat, I knew I would hear it loud and clearly. I shut everything off, fed the crew and got ready for bed.
Hollie’s blanket was soaked. I wrung it out, hung it up and put my jacket down for him. I knew my jacket was the only thing that would substitute for his blanket because he was used to sleeping on it inside buildings. Seaweed was tired and went straight to sleep. I peeled off my wet clothes and examined my bruises. It felt like somebody had beaten me up. My leg was still sore from getting trapped in the wreck. The river was trying to kill me! Sheba’s last prediction was that something terrible would happen on our way, but that we would be okay. I thought it had already happened at Anticosti Island but this was worse. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. I was done with this river. It wasn’t worth it. Never before in my life had so many things gone wrong.
As I pulled on dry clothes and lay down on my cot, I heard Hollie paw my jacket into an acceptable shape. It took him a long time but he plopped down finally and sighed. Things could have turned out so differently, I knew, and I shivered in my bed just thinking about it. I felt grateful I was still alive. I felt grateful my crew was all righ
t. Ever so slowly, I fell asleep.
We slept a long time and I had long, interesting dreams. In one dream there was an angel, but I couldn’t see her. I asked her if she was the angel of the river and she said yes. I asked her if I would ever see her. She said that I already knew who she was. I thought that was a strange answer and felt the strangeness of it still when I woke.
After tea and breakfast with the crew I started to feel better. With the lights on and all of us rested, everything seemed different again. The river was very dangerous, that was for sure. Many people had been killed by it, for hundreds of years. But I didn’t believe in the curse of the mummy. I still wasn’t sure if I believed in ghosts. I had been trapped by the old wreck because I had thrown the anchor without looking first. I had lost the sub in the river because I had abandoned it carelessly to save a cat. Those were mistakes in judgment, to tell the truth. Jacques Cartier had travelled up the river successfully. Why couldn’t I? Surely he had had difficult moments? Surely he must have felt discouraged at times? I read that he ran into storms in the mouth of the river and had to change course and seek shelter. He also fired a cannon to scare the local people when he was unsure of their intentions. He didn’t trust them. He must have felt afraid then, and yet he never gave up and never let the river beat him. He had used good judgment. As I drank my tea, peeled some oranges and studied the map, I decided not to let the river beat me either. I didn’t believe in curses and I just hated giving up.
The rescue boats had returned. I felt bad they had searched for me, although that was their job, and it was good practice. Rescuers had to practise to stay sharp. There would be no dredging of the river with a current of seven knots. There would be no point. There would be no extensive searching either. They would know that a body would wash up downstream. I bet there were places where bodies got caught in the shallows and the police knew just where to look for them. I read in Sheba’s book that Hindus in India would burn bodies instead of burying them, then put the ashes in the Ganges River, which they believed was a god, then let the river carry them away. But sometimes they couldn’t afford to burn the whole body and would just drop the charred remains into the water. And there were crocodiles in the Ganges. Yikes! I was glad there were no crocodiles in the St. Lawrence.
