Reeling

by Ev Bishop

  She rolled to her stomach and enough water seeped above ice level that she almost floated. Evil fingers of frigid water found the vulnerable warmth of her body above her waistband, stealing her breath.

  Her legs and arms already felt thick and heavy. Fighting panic, she realized she was pointed in the opposite direction from which she’d originally come. Should she try to turn herself? Doing so, the treacherous surface beneath her groaned. She felt around with both arms, blinded with tears. The ice seemed firmer in the direction of the opposite bank. Or she prayed it was. She needed to get off the ice, out of the water. She’d figure out the best route home once she was out of the water. Still, for dangerous seconds, she lay there paralyzed, her clothing wicking up the cruel river.

  You could die out here. The truth of the cold statement sliced through her fear-induced inertia. Slowly, slowly, so painfully slowly, she elbow-crawled, keeping her belly low, dragging through snow, and increasingly slushy—no. No! The river was softer suddenly and she was even more wet. Wet right through, she was sure of it. It was getting more and more difficult to command her body to crawl forward and to think clearly. But when the tinkling sound, like glass breaking, hit her senses, it registered instantly. The ice around her was shattering! She flailed wildly—and couldn’t even be relieved when she realized her whole body had broken through, and yet her head was still above water. She’d made it to rocky shallows, deceptively soft-looking under a mess of ice, water and snow.

  Unsteady and stumbling, Mia struggled against a current that sucked around her shins and knees, threatening to knock her down and pull her back to deeper water. The stones beneath her boots were slippery with algae or some other slimy substance—a fall waiting to happen. Finally, she managed to lumber out of the river on numb legs, her backpack like a cumbersome turtle shell. Her wet clothing stuck to her, weighing her down, and already stiffening in the plummeting temperature. She looked back. There was no way she was going to get across and back to the cabin tonight. There was a bridge, somewhere near-ish the Secret Keeper. She’d taken it the time she’d trekked through the woods and up the mountain to Gray’s. So that was down river from where she was now? But the light was failing and she didn’t know if she should attempt to find it.

  She’d take shelter under some of the bigger trees while she could still see. Maybe she could find one or two with large enough canopies that they’d have bare earth and enough dried leaves and branches to start a fire. She trembled violently. Yes, a fire. First priority.

  She yelled help once, then screamed it as loud as she could. But she was completely alone and there was no-one anywhere nearby to help her. It was smarter to conserve energy, prepare a place to hunker down, and try to get dry. She staggered up the beach and into the tree line, her battered shins breaking snow like detached wooden things, completely without feeling. If—no, when—she got a fire going, she would use her whistle and her flashlight and mirror to try to signal for help.

  Chapter 26

  Gray’s head jerked up and he glanced away from the fishing line he was reeling in. He could’ve sworn he heard a human cry for help. He listened hard for a few minutes, but deep, unbroken silence met his ears. And really, what were the chances? He was literally the only person living on this side of the river for hundreds of miles.

  He returned his attention to his rod and reel, planning to cast one more time, then call it a night. He had noticed the opening in the river’s ice the day before, and facing another yawning afternoon, decided to try for a trout or two. When had the days out here grown so long and unfulfilling? Yeah, right. Like he didn’t know exactly when—and like he didn’t know who the timing coincided with.

  His cast, as if fueled by his sudden flare of emotions, went wild and long—but then the current caught his lure and pulled it down. The weight of the river dragged his line, as steadily and inescapably as the pull of life on time—but then the movement changed. There was a shuddering jolt, then a tug. He jerked hard on the rod to set the hook, hoping it really was a trout, not a rock or a log that he’d stuck his lure into but good. He started reeling again.

  The tension on his line suddenly went slack. Shoot, the fish had gotten away—no, wait, hold that thought. The rod bounced hard. The played-out fish was only resting, steeling itself for one more fight. Silver flashed as the fish shot through the surface. Gray took his time, reeling slowly now. He wanted to net the fish, but knew the ice wouldn’t hold his weight. He’d have to get it all the way to shore first.

  And then he was done reeling. The fish, still fighting, writhed on the snow in front of him. You have to admire their spirit, he thought. They never give up or quit trying to survive until they have no choice.

  Gray reflected on that observation for a second—and added it to the fact that he still had plenty of stew left from the other night. Then he carefully removed the barbless hook from the trout’s cheek, happy it had done no damage the creature wouldn’t easily recover from. The fish rested twitchily, not wanting to die, but not necessarily happy to be alive at the moment either.

  “I feel you, little buddy,” Gray muttered. He kicked at the ice along the river’s edge until there was a small patch of open water, then retrieved the flailing fish. The lithe body twisted and jumped from Gray’s hand the second he lowered it back to the water—but then, for such a long moment that Gray feared for the worse, it floated completely motionless. It was like the poor thing was stunned and unable to figure out what to do after discovering it was still alive, not dead after all.

  Suddenly, without warning, it perked up and zipped beneath the shelter of the ice. There was something inspiring in that—how the creature went from seemingly unable to recuperate to full of life and off like a shot, despite its wounds and proximity to death. Mia would’ve appreciated the analogy too. With that thought, the tiny flash of brightness in Gray’s mind darted away just like the fish. He slid his rod apart and put it in its carrier, then started back for his cabin, figuring he’d walk the shore as long as he could before trudging uphill. And he’d better get a move on.

  He’d trekked a good mile or so and was glad he’d left off fishing when he did. Even with his steady pace, he could feel the falling temperature. The flirting warmth earlier in the day had been deceiving. Night was coming fast, wrapped in its all too familiar deep chill. The sky, a quickly fading periwinkle blue, would be navy soon, then black.

  Despite feeling pressed for time—he could get home in the dark, but it wasn’t his preference—Gray paused and sniffed the air, not with wariness exactly, but definitely with some curiosity. Was there a taint of oily, wet wood smoke in the air? He sniffed again. Yes—and that was strange because he was a long way from where anyone with good sense would have a fire.

  He was about to veer toward the trail he’d take home when a disturbance along the bank caught his eye. The snow was kicked up and looked like something had been dragged through it. He scanned the broken shield of ice, alarm buzzing through him. The chewed-up area was a concern. It wasn’t the smooth edged, gradually enlarging hole that forms when the weather starts to warm. Some animal had struggled there. He’d once witnessed a moose drown, not far from this very spot. It had traumatized him, even though he’d known the poor beast must’ve already been weakened by illness or a predator because moose were normally tough survivors. The fact hadn’t been much of a consolation.

  Gray examined the area once more but saw no sign of struggling wildlife. Then he caught a terrifying detail in the fading light. He looked again, sure his eyes were deceiving him. But no—

  Suddenly he was running from the water’s edge, calling and whistling for Wolf as he did. He was following boot tracks—boots that had emerged from the river. And if someone had been dunked in there today, they were going to need help and quick. He just hoped he wasn’t too late. His breath formed white puffs in the bluing light, and he prayed the temperature wasn’t already below zero.

  Wolf was at his side, then rushing forth, beating Gray to the ra
mshackle pile of . . . what? His brain struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. Clothes, obviously wet at one time because they were now rigid as boards on top of what seemed to be a pile of leaves and tree debris at the base of a cedar. His eyes locked on a familiar raspberry scarf and his blood surged so hard within him, he was momentarily staggered by dizziness. Then his head raged in a fevered panic. Mia. Mia was here? Mia had fallen into the river somehow?

  He dropped his rod and scrambled toward the terrifying heap, digging through it as fast as humanly possible. He found her hunched in the hollow of the tree’s massive root system, deeply buried in leaves and pine boughs. A weak fire struggled beside her, barely giving off the smoke he had noticed earlier.

  “Mia—hey,” he whispered.

  She jumped as if he’d yelled, then pushed away some of the leaves she’d buried herself with and squinted groggily. “Gray?”

  “Yeah, it’s me,” he growled, surly with the relief of hearing her voice and seeing her move.

  “F-finally,” she said through chattering teeth, a hint of her old self in her thin voice. “What took you so long?”

  He couldn’t bring himself to smile even a little at her attempt at levity, though he was relieved that she was obviously conscious and alert. “How long have you been out here?” he asked, reaching for her, careful not to jostle her or rub her extremities too hard, not wanting to send potentially dangerous cold blood rushing from her arms and legs to her heart.

  She was shivering hard, inadequately dressed in a lightweight long sleeve shirt and knee socks. That was it. Socks and a shirt! He wanted to yell in fury but forced himself to be calm. She did have a toque on, that was one thing. He changed his mind about trying to move her for the moment and lowered his pack instead, then searched through it.

  “My . . . my clothes got wet and it was the only thing I didn’t have, extra clothes. I only had . . . had a toque and dry socks and one shirt,” she stammered, obviously finding speech difficult.

  “Better than nothing. And you got a fire started.”

  He noticed she had gathered a small pile of branches to keep the blaze—if you could call it that—going.

  As if hearing his thoughts and taking offense, the smoking little mess burst into an actual flame or two. “Finally,” Mia breathed. She reached for some of the smaller twigs with stiff movements and added them. Within seconds the fire brightened a bit more. There was even the odd crackle and snap. “Didn’t, didn’t . . . want to snuff it out. Had to wait to feed it,” she whispered haltingly.

  Gray nodded. “Good thinking. Smart.” He found what he was looking for and wrapped the polar fleece button down around her, then wrestled a pair of sweatpants onto her. She was limp and unresisting in his arms—which made dressing her very difficult.

  “Mia, you still with me?” he asked when she no longer appeared aware of his presence or actions. He yanked one of his gloves off with his teeth, and pressed two fingers to her neck, feeling for her carotid pulse. It was there—and nice and steady.

  He pulled off his other glove and fumbled her hands into them.

  Her teeth chattered. “Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. I’m just so tired and sooo cold. I was letting you do the work. Sorry,” she repeated.

  Relief burned in the back of Gray’s throat. She still felt cold! That was a small mercy—but it was too early for real optimism. Even if things weren’t critical yet, they very well could be and soon.

  “I was going to keep slowly building the fire and wait till dark, then I’d use my flashlight and mirror and see if I could get someone’s attention. I didn’t want to waste my battery.”

  “That was good thinking too,” Gray muttered but he was only half aware of what she said. His thoughts raced pell-mell, searching for—and discarding—options as they occurred to him.

  His place was too far away, or too far for him to carry her anyway, and the temperature was only going to keep falling now that the sun had dropped completely from the sky. He needed to get her dry and warm—and soon. Her fire wasn’t going to be hot enough or last long enough unless he could find a lot more fuel. Without a decent fire, even if he rigged a tarp, it would hard to make up the body heat lost through her exposure to the river. Another possibility trickled into his head.

  There was an old trapper’s cabin that snowmobilers and backcountry hikers and skiers used—and sometimes even kept partially stocked. But regardless of what goods it did or didn’t store, at least it would be dry. Plus, it had an old woodstove. Its most important feature, however, was its proximity. A quarter of the distance his cabin was—and on flat terrain. That he could manage with Mia in his arms.

  He spent precious minutes lowering her back to the cold earth again, stuffing her wet clothes into her backpack, and then shoving the works into his bigger one and putting it on again. Finally, he carefully wrapped her in the reflective blanket he always carried.

  And then he set off, racing against the assailing cold.

  In his hurry, he forgot about the stream—just one of many—that fed into the river near the derelict cabin, and he didn’t see it in the darkness. Before he knew what was happening, he had plunged past his knees into cold. Somehow he managed to keep hold of Mia and by some miracle she was conscious enough to tighten her grip on his neck. By the time he lurched onto dry land again, however, he was soaked past his waist. His snow pants were so waterlogged, it was like wearing a lead suit.

  His bad leg burned like it had been torn off and with every step he expected it to fail him.

  But he had to be close. They had to be—

  Chapter 27

  A shadow darker than the myriad of other lurking shadows hulked into view. For a few ragged breaths, Gray was sure it was a figment of his desperate imagination—but he pushed on, one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other. The square-shaped wraith grew more distinct, gleaming dully in the scant moonlight. Four walls. A roof. Relief made him weak. They’d made it. He sagged beneath Mia’s weight and kicked at the door, which was stuck in its frame, swollen stubbornly in place by time and bad weather. When it finally let loose and creaked open, they practically fell inside.

  Gray set Mia, who was limp and boneless and heavy as wet cement, on the floor and struck a match. What he saw made him want to weep. A rough bed in a weathertight corner—with blankets. An ancient stove, like he’d remembered. A small stack of firewood! It didn’t matter that he could feel the outside air rushing in and see the night sky through gaps around one of the windows. He could work with this.

  The terror that had flooded his system and propelled him on since finding Mia by the river drained abruptly, leaving him disorientated and shaky. Gray closed his eyes and allowed his mind to go there, to ask what if, for one horrible minute. Then he pulled a long shuddery breath into his stress-seized lungs and got down to doing what needed to be done.

  *

  Mia’s eyes shot open and were met by darkness. Where was she? The dusty air was closed-up smelling and thick with smoke from a poorly vented fire, but Mia found it deeply comforting. They had shelter from the worst of the elements. She was dry—

  Wait, those were weird thoughts.

  Groggy snippets of memory dripped in and she shivered. The river. Her fall. Gray. An attempt to reach some dark little cabin. Apparently, they’d made it, or she had. Was Gray just a dream? Against her bare skin, musty flannel sheets had the strange soft-yet-rough texture of line dried fabric. They were warming slightly with her body heat and Mia sighed, almost unconscious with exhaustion and relief. So she wasn’t actually frozen solid, it had just felt like it.

  She burrowed deeper beneath the heavy weight of the top sheet and scratchy wool military blankets she thought Gray had tucked around her. Gray again. Was she delusional or had he saved her? Another full body shiver, almost a convulsion, shook her limbs and rattled her jaw. She wasn’t sure what caused this tremor, however: the aftereffects of her exposure to the cold or the barrage of compli
cated emotions that Gray evoked.

  Where was he anyway? Maybe she really had imagined him? But then how had she gotten here, wherever “here” was? Every so often she heard a scuffling bump or rustle that she’d assumed was him, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was a rat or a raccoon or . . . worse. Maybe he’d disappeared back into the night when she’d dozed off. Maybe he’d left once he’d gotten her to a place where she’d probably survive without his help. She wouldn’t blame him. And she couldn’t hear Wolf.

  She opened her eyes again and scanned the deep shadows. “Gray?” The shrillness of her voice made her jump. She wouldn’t have recognized it as her own. “Gray?”

  Something heavy scraped along the rough plank floor and the hair on the back of her neck prickled.

  Then a familiar low voice whispered, “Yeah?”

  “You’re here.” Her absolute relief was obvious even to her own ears.

  “Yeah.”

  Oh, man of many words! Still, she’d never been so grateful for his monosyllable responses as she was now. “Where are you?”

  “By the stove.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve been feeling around to see if there’s any wood I missed, dry or not. The fire’s pretty much out, and I don’t know if it got the place any warmer.”

  Mia hesitated. “You can sleep up here. You should sleep up here. You’ll freeze otherwise.”

  More memories trickled in. Gray carrying her. Them hitting a creek or something? He’d gotten as soaked as she was. Sitting in wet clothes all night would be miserable at best and an extreme health hazard at worst. And if he’d stripped? Well, that was a non-solution too. Even if he could get that small stove blazing, the cabin would be cold. Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could make out black sky and stars through gaps in the walls.

  Another wooden creak. It was the only sound in the quiet room for a long time.