Crabbe

by William Bell

  Strange how that word soon took on new and unexpected meaning.

  Crabbe’s Journal: 7

  If the river into the lake was kind to me, moving me carefully from where I left the station wagon to the lintel of the sand bar, the stream out of the lake was playful. For one thing, it was narrow, about the width of a canoe. For another, it moved quickly. It twisted and snarled and backtracked all through a sort of pass between a group of hills. One minute the stream was so shallow that I couldn’t paddle, even if I did know how, then the sandy bottom would disappear suddenly into a deep dark pool, usually on a bend. Occasionally there were log jams or boulders to avoid. The shore was sometimes crowded with bushes; sometimes grassy and swampy for about fifty yards to the trees; sometimes a graveyard of bleached stumps.

  But I didn’t have time to notice how creepy it all was.

  Through this scenery I tried, with almost continual failure, to control the canoe. I hated those long curves and sharp, double-back bends the most because the current would always move me into the bend and push me into the bank. Then I’d have to struggle and heave and splash my way out of the backwater and into the straightaway below the curve.

  After what was easily a couple of hours of this bone-grinding toil I began to get a little bit of control. It was during one of the many rest stops, canoe jammed against a grassy bank by the current, that I decided I might as well experiment with my paddle to try and gain at least some control. I had nothing to lose, that’s for sure. So, I’d paddle easily in the straight sections, changing sides quickly, then when one of those frustrating curves came I’d drag the paddle and try to steer. I found that by turning the paddle different ways I could sort of rudder the canoe in roughly the direction I wanted. And by “ruddering” on different sides, I got even more satisfaction. It didn’t work all that well: I still got trapped in backwaters and shoved around in the bends and I still thumped logs and ground on gravel bars — once I even dropped my paddle over the side while changing hands, barely managing to retrieve it — but things improved.

  The river began to widen, straighten and slow down now and the shoreline was not so hilly. Luckily: I needed the rest and paddling was easier. Soon I was slipping, in a zig-zag of course, across a huge beaver pond. The surface of the coffee-coloured water was sprinkled with tired-out looking lily pads. But I was far more weary than the plants. As long as I kept moving, my body stayed numb, but when I rested, the aches and pains started, and my muscles, apparently every one on my body, began to stiffen. Well, there’d be no rest for awhile.

  At the far end of the pond was a beaver dam that spanned a natural rock cut about a dozen feet across. From the dam the water dropped roaring about six feet over boulders and fallen tree trunks. If I remembered right, from the trip with my Father, the creek rushed and jumped through the bush for a quarter of a mile, over many tiny falls. To get from beaver pond to lake you walked along a portage that followed the creek.

  I was glad to get out of that canoe, I’ll tell you. My legs would hardly straighten but I managed to stand up, clamber over the packs and step out onto the little sand beach. It seemed like I hadn’t felt land under my boots for a long time. I swiveled my torso a little and flapped my arms, then walked into the bush to take a leak. I returned to find the canoe being dragged from the beach toward the falls. I’d have to watch that.

  I admit I’d never done a day’s work in my life before I escaped. Our house had electric this and power that. What work the machines didn’t do alone, they helped with. And the servants did the rest. Clothes always arrived clean, food always arrived cooked, and lawns were always mowed. We never walked where we could drive (and if we couldn’t drive we wouldn’t go). We even hired someone else to fix the machines if they got sick or died.

  So that portage, after many hours of paddling, was an ordeal completely beyond my experience. When my Father and I did it, we had much less baggage and a portage wagon — a sheet of plywood with a bicycle wheel underneath — to help. All we had to do was pull the thing.

  I dragged the packs out of the boat and put them to the side. Then I hauled the canoe up onto dry land. I’d seen pictures of guys carrying canoes, jaunting along happily through a natural wonderland, heads invisible under the noble craft that rested lightly on their shoulders. Sure. You bet. Just try to get the damn thing up. I attempted everything, from every direction, but the canoe just rolled out of my hands and fell to the ground with a hollow thump. Luckily, it was fibreglass. Then, in desperation, I rolled it onto one gunwale, crawled in under it, settled the centre thwart on my shoulders, and staggered to my feet. Success! I had it off the ground­ until the front end slowly descended and thumped the ground, sending hollow echoes drumming into my ears. I slid my arms further forward on the gunwales and heaved, sending the bow skyward at great speed and ramming the stern into the dirt behind me. More echoes. Easy, now, I thought. I adjusted the position of my hands again, pulled down on the gunwales and slowly raised the back and then, gingerly, because the balance wasn’t good, I began to walk.

  A quarter of a mile isn’t far — once around a track, a few city blocks — but when you’re trying to balance a clumsy chunk of fibreglass and wood, whose weight is concentrated into a three-inch wide thwart across your already aching shoulders, while bumping over rocks and slipping in mud, a quarter mile is a journey. Not only that, it’s a boring journey because with the boat overhead all you can see is a yard of ground in front of your toes.

  After a couple of forevers I caught sight of water through the bare trees and finally reached the lake. So as not to drop the boat I knelt down on the gravelly shore and tried to ease out from under. I ended up sort of rolling it off my shoulders as I fell sideways. I lay there for a while, panting, then sat up.

  The walk back through the open bush, mostly tall hardwoods, seemed heavenly in comparison. I could hear the brook racing over the mossy stones, birds telling their chirpy stories, my boots thumping on the dry ground or slicking through mud in the low spots.

  But it didn’t last. Carrying the packs was worse than the canoe. Each of the big ones was heavier than the boat and I’d packed them like a fool. They were shape­ less blobs, like ripe grapes or water bags, except the food tins or equipment stuck sharp corners out. I probably looked pretty funny trying to get them on my back (one at a time, of course). I couldn’t lift them on so I tried a few experiments and ended up dragging a pack to a flat spot on the embankment and sort of half-sitting, half-leaning against it from below, slipping my arms in under the straps. I stood up and staggered off down the trail.

  Within two minutes I had decided to repack those bags first chance I got. Because, aside from the leather straps cutting into the already tender muscles of my shoulders cutting off the blood so that my arms began to buzz, all kinds of corners and ends of objects — mostly bad objects, dug into my back, like cruel fingers prodding me along. I put out more sweat on that portage in one go-round than I had in all my life up ‘til then. After four trips I was soaked. At the end of the last trip I sat down dizzily and looked out over the lake.

  A breeze had come up during the hour and a half I was on the trail and the lake had a bit of a chop to it. The cloud cover was lower and the whole scene was grey and colourless. It was getting late but I knew the campsite I was heading for was only a mile or so down the lake. My Father and I had stayed there.

  Did I say a little further? Well, maybe, in a boat paddled by a skillful canoeist. But for old Crabbe, landlubber from birth, another challenge because I had the waves to contend with. I’m not saying they were huge rollers. They were barely ripples — just enough to make the canoe roll a little off centre as each one passed under me. I was travelling at right angles to wind and waves. And the breeze — just enough to flip my forelock every few minutes — was no help. The Crabbe zig-zag almost worked on flat, calm water with dead still air. Here I travelled in four directions at once: the zig, the zag, the gradual forward motion toward the campsite and the sideways drift caused
by wind and wave (breeze and ripple). It took another hour and a half.

  But I did it. I got to the place, a narrow, rocky peninsula about fifty feet across the base and twice as long covered with pines. I groaned with relief when I heard the bow grind into the rock of the shore. Climbing stiffly out of the canoe; I stood up and stretched as much as my muscles would let me. Then I dragged the canoe up on shore, manhandled the packs out and hauled them up the slanting rock onto flat, needle­covered ground.

  I was worn out, beaten thin. And what I wanted was sleep. Soon I had the tent pitched; a little cock-eyed but standing under a huge pine. And a few seconds after that I crawled gratefully into my sleeping bag and took a long, graceful dive into the black well of sleep.

  If I’d known what was going to happen I wouldn’t have made that dive.

  Crabbe’s Journal: 8

  I returned to the world slowly, keeping my eyes closed though wakefulness was almost complete. I could smell the damp, still, pine-scented air, then the unique smell of wet nylon. The sounds of falling water surrounded me: big, well-spaced plops from the tall pine that stretched above the tent and delicate drips onto the tent fly.

  I opened my eyes. The inside of the tent was filled with a warm, thin, rosy light as daylight was filtered by the orange walls of the tent. I lifted the flap to find a grey, rainy day outside. The lake was tea coloured and calm.

  I was warm and cozy inside the down sleeping bag. But as wakefulness came it brought a variety of aches and pains. My body had a work hangover that would win prizes. And the edges of rocks and roots under the nylon floor of the tent didn’t help. I snuggled deeper and dozed again.

  But I couldn’t sleep. After a while I got out of the cocoon and crawled into the day. I tied back the tent flaps and looked around. Grey. Close. Wet. It was the kind of day you’d like to spend in bed with an interesting novel and a bit of Silent Sam to help you keep away the Meanies. I had brought no booze but the rest of the plan sounded good.

  First I ambled back into the bush a little ways, muscles complaining the whole way. The soggy, needle-covered ground was dead quiet. While I was taking a leak I looked around and saw some strange animal droppings, almost like cow-flaps, all over the place. But there were no cows around here. I took no further notice and went back to the campsite.

  Foresight has never been a strong point with me, as I was reminded when I started to rummage around in the packs. I had left the one holding the equipment wide open last night and now it was soaked inside and out. One of the food packs had come partially open with all the handling from the day before and the rain had invaded it too. The few thick novels I’d packed were sopping wet all through. The pages separated when I tried to turn them. No booze and now no books. This trip was going to be a challenge.

  My snacks were wet too. Since swimming peanuts have never been my favourite food, I scattered a half pound of them around for the squirrels and dug out a tin of smoked herring and a bag of “chocolate dreams.” Then I retied the packs, took a long drink from the lake and hauled my aching frame back into the tent.

  With my boots off and stashed in a front corner of the tent, I climbed back into the bag and managed to pack it around me in such a way that I could sit cross-legged with my arms free. I peeled back the lid of the kipper can and gorged on the oily fish, stuffing the morsels into my mouth with my fingers. Boy, what a classy guy. But I was famished. I managed in my talented way to spill fish oil on my sleeping bag, the tent floor, and the ground in front of the tent. Otherwise, I was very neat. The chocolates tasted dreamy, as advertised on the label. I munched through half the bag and stuffed the rest into one of my boots.

  Then I did something I’ve never done. I just sat and looked out through the rain across the campsite, past the well-spaced pines and over the lake. My mind was unusually calm. Little wavelets of thought rippled across it, leaving no trace. It was nice; it was nice to sit and look away at nothing in particular. Because ordinarily my mind felt like a telephone exchange, constantly jabbed and zapped by frantic messages: test coming Monday, Mother mad again, project due two days ago, kids laughing behind me in the halls. On and on, over and over, current never turned off, switchboard never shut down, messages unanswered, circuits overloaded.

  But here I noticed the millions of tiny currents that streaked the surface of the dark water. The far shore was a soft, dark grey line. Shreds of cloud changed shape quickly, moving across the somber sky. Water, land and sky were blended together, unified by the hiss of the rain.

  Imagine. I thought all these thoughts as I sat like a skinny, aching buddha in my little orange cave. Tough Crabbe, who hated city rain because all it did was move the grime from one place to another. Resting in that orange tent I looked out into a very small world, shut off by rain and distance. I was contented. I was even almost happy. I was also tired, so I rolled over and fell asleep.

  I woke up with a start from a dream troubled by dark wings, one of those nightmares that leaves you with no memory, only fear. The tent flaps were still open and through them lay a black night, like a wall. It was dead silent — no wind, no dripping of rain. The air was chilly and damp.

  Rolling onto my back, I pulled the bag up around my neck and stared at the tent roof. I couldn’t shake the feeling of foreboding that enclosed me as if it were part of the night air. Had I had a nightmare, brought on by the food I ate just before sleep? I remembered nothing. Anxiety attacks were not new to me: they had introduced me to Silent Sam and visited me regularly. But this was different. This was a dark, nameless fear that I seemed to breathe in with each breath. And I could hear nothing and see nothing. My senses were useless. Then a strange sound separated itself from the night — a soft, tearing sound off in the woods behind me, like the ripping of wet paper. Then, nothing, only my breathing. My heartbeat picked up. I strained to hear and to see. Another sound. Different, close — a brushing noise. Then, as one slowly becomes aware of a rising breeze, I felt an eerie huffing sound, almost like the snort of a pig, but not as sharp, or the pant of a dog, but more threatening. It was rhythmical. It got slowly louder. A twig snapped back of the tent. One of the guy lines jerked. By now my pulse was hammering in my ears but I could still follow the movement of the huffing noise from behind the tent along the side, coming closer and louder. I jerked up onto one elbow as a searing terror burned through me.

  A shape blacker than the night loomed in the door­ way. The huffing was loud now as the shape pumped stinking breath into the tent. I was paralyzed, convinced that some shaggy monster had shambled from a horrible fairy tale to tear my flesh and break my bones.

  The shape stopped moving. “Oh, god, oh, god,” I chanted, my eyes fixed on the shape. The air inside the tent reeked from the foul odour. Unable to keep still any longer I shrieked and tried to scramble to the back wall of the tent. The shape leapt at me, snarling. I felt sharp claws through the sleeping bag dragging me backwards. Instinctively I rolled into a ball, whimpering, “No, no, no,” and kept still. The claws withdrew.

  Another snarl filled the tent as I was seized again and partially rolled over. Eyes squeezed shut, jaws clamped closed as in a seizure, I stopped breathing, petrified.

  I must have fainted — for how long I don’t know. But when I came to again it was light, the flat light of an overcast dawn. I was lying half-in, half-out of the tent, my head resting on my arm. The stench around me was awful, almost physical. I then realized I had thrown up. My head and arm were lying in sticky vomit. I got up on one elbow and threw up again in painful spasms, until nothing more came. My stomach continued to heave and I lay back down, head on arm. A few minutes later, still panting from terror and the heaving, I struggled to a sitting position at the door of the tent. I saw the sleeping bag twisted and rolled into a corner. Down covered everything like grey snow. One of my boots was missing. The other had been chewed around the top. The candy bag was ripped and empty.

  Turning my head I looked over the campsite. Nothing there — except a brown, smelly pi
le of the same animal droppings I’d seen in the bush. Then I noticed that the food packs had been dragged around a little, but neither had been torn open.

  When I got to my hands and knees I realized with disgust that sometime during my ordeal my bowels had emptied a liquid, stinking mess into my pants and down both legs. I had pissed myself too. The disgusting stench of myself nauseated me further and I began to retch again as I crawled toward the lake.

  Slowly, looking fearfully around, for I half expected to be attacked again, I removed my clothing. I searched for claw marks but found nothing. At last I sat naked at the edge of a lake, like a newborn baby, weak, scared and dirty. After a few minutes I stood and shakily waded into the cold, numbing water. I washed myself clean of my own filth, sweat and fear.

  The clouds began to lift and allow the sun to bring a little warmth. After I washed, I lay on the flat granite shingle. Slowly the sun warmed the fear out of me. Relief replaced it. I was still alive.

  I had been certain I was going to die, torn and chewed by a black bear (I guessed that’s what it had to be), my remains left to rot alone in the bush. Somehow, I’m not sure why, dying like that scared me more than a glorious death on a battlefield or in a bicycle race or something like that. It sounds crazy, I know. After all, if you’re dead you’re dead.

  Anyway, there I was, lying naked on a rock at the edge of a lake whose name I didn’t know. I closed my eyes against the sun. A light breeze skimmed my skin, moving the hair on my legs, belly and chest. I could feel the grit of sand grains between me and the cool granite and my skin took on a lazy glow from the sun. I heard the peaceful lap of wavelets on the shore and the sound of the breeze in the pines overhead. Bird­song, at least four or five different kinds, sprinkled the air. I slept.