Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

“Let’s get walking,” Ace said.

Clara nodded, waited for him to take the lead, and he wanted to slap her silly straight teeth down her throat. Just because Eve was beyond his reach.

Instead, he pointed downriver. “That way.”

Clara nodded again, like she knew it all along, then gathered her macrame shawl about her shoulders and sought a flat path near the shore.

Uppity bitch. Ace followed her, pausing first to spit into the churning river.

“What the fuck, Raintree?”

Robert Raintree looked up from his stump. Beside him was his backpack. He’d broken down his tent, tucked it and his sleeping bag away, and had rekindled the campfire for breakfast. He’d dipped into the medicine bag and found peace, as he had on so many mornings.

He’d been sitting on the stump for two hours. He’d seen Bowie Whitlock slip into the woods, then Dove Krueger following him a few minutes later. A distant woodpecker nailed a staccato breakfast, the wilderness equivalent of a barnyard rooster. After that, he’d lapsed into meditation, the way he imagined his ancestors had done before their vision quests.

But Farrengalli was now in his face, loud, asinine, raw as nature and twice as ugly.

“Excuse me?” Raintree said.

“You’re, like, up with the fucking birds, dude.”

“I thought we were getting an early start.”

Farrengalli blinked at the ragged, red dawn. “Yeah. Where’s that fucking Whitlock, anyway?”

The way Farrengalli had been drinking from his flask last night, Raintree was surprised to see the man had no sign of a hangover. If anything, flushed cheeks and a pained expression seemed to fit Farrengalli, as if waking up in anger were the only reason to bother opening his eyes at all.

“Got any extra water?” Farrengalli said. “I’m thirsty as a mother whore.”

“Whitlock said to ration.”

“Well, the river looks clean enough.”

The river was probably clean enough two hundred years ago, when his ancestors had hunted the watering holes for elk and deer. No, not all his ancestors. He was only half Cherokee, and he was pretty sure his bloodline had been tainted with Choctaw and Shawnee, other tribes that had been driven West and lumped together. “I wouldn’t advise it, unless you’re going to boil it first.”

“Hey, Red Man, afraid to drink a little bear piss? Probably put some hair on your pecker. Or you rather drink’um firewater?”

So much for peace. Raintree closed his eyes and concentrated on the whisper of soft feathers through his central nervous system. Good medicine.

Farrengalli spat a dry chunk of mucus into the fire. “I’m making coffee. Might as well get the old blood system jumpstarted while I’m waiting around for these clowns. Hey, where’s the chick?” Farrengalli undulated his hands in the shape of feminine curves. “You know, the hot squaw?”

Raintree said nothing. He listened again to the birds and their timeless songs of morning, wondering what messages they were sharing. At the edge of the clearing, Travis Lane and C.A. McKay were busy breaking down their tents. Dove Krueger’s tent stood with its front flap open, empty. Whitlock’s gear was already packed, except for one of the Muskrats, which lay in a sleek bundle near the campfire.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

You more than make up for the two of us, he wanted to say, but Farrengalli was right. Raintree spread out the raft he’d been carrying, attaching the hand-operated air pump to the outer valve. Travis Lane hurried over, already sweating though the air was not humid.

“Do you know how to connect it?” Lane said. “Make sure you inflate the inner and outer layers to the same pressure.”

“Him smart Injun,” Farrengalli said.

Raintree screwed the pump to the valve stem and began working the handle. The raft swelled like a blister. The outer layer was blue, the inner canary yellow. There were no seats, just three sets of nylon belts lined on the rubberized deck. A series of hardened vinyl loops ran along the outer rim of the raft, and held nylon cord that could be used for tying off the raft and securing gear. Raintree had inflated the raft during the orientation session, but in its intended habitat, he could better appreciate the ingenuity of the design.

“Thirty-two pounds,” Lane said, excited for the first time since the journey began. “Now fill the inner layer.”

Raintree was connecting the pump to the second stem when Whitlock emerged from the woods and approached them.

“Where you been?” Farrengalli said, glancing at an imaginary wristwatch. “The fish are biting and your friends here were about to shove off without you.”

“I was reconnoitering downstream,” Whitlock said. “Only a fool launches without knowing what’s waiting ahead.”

“You look like a fairy in that wet suit,” Farrengalli said.

“Hey, Farrengalli, don’t knock the SealSkinz,” Lane said. “That’s space-age design right there. Remember, you’re on ProVentures’s dime right now.”

“Right, Boss.” He turned to Raintree. “I got a feeling this is going to be a case of ‘Too many chiefs and not enough Injuns.’ Har-haw-haw.”

Raintree winced at the man’s braying, exagerrated laugh, but kept his attention on the pump’s pressure gauge. When the pressure levels of the two chambers matched, Raintree packed away the pump while Lane tested the raft with his boot. Whitlock brought out the paddles and extended and tightened the telescoping handles.

“Hey, sweetmeat, where you been?” Farrengalli hollered.

C.A. McKay, now wearing his SealSkinz and backpack, hollered back, “I know I’m pretty sweet, but this is strictly for the ladies.”

“Get over it, Golden Boy. I wasn’t talking to you.”

“And the ladies don’t want it, anyway,” Dove Krueger said.

Farrengalli let out his braying laugh again, silencing the birds.

Dove’s hair was wet and she had obviously washed it. She, too, was dressed in a SealSkinz, and Raintree had to admit it did wonderful things for her figure. Like the others, she had worn sparse, loose clothing while hiking, and lightweight fabrics were the smart choice when you had to pack them back out at the end of the run. Her SealSkinz left delicious little to the imagination, and it was the kind of little that was the most fun. Raintree wouldn’t be surprised if she were the cover model in the Back2Nature Magazine when the special Muskrat edition hit the stands. In a bikini, holding a paddle in a suggestive manner, sitting astride the Muskrat with her tanned legs spread.

She’s not your vision. Keep your mind clean and open or you’ll miss the sign when it flies in front of your face.

He wondered why the word “flies” had popped into his head. Ravens, he knew, were the largest of the crow family and a common ceremonial symbol among the Cherokee. The tribe even had a legend of the Raven Mocker, a spirit that changed forms and deceived people. Eagles, hawks, falcons, herons, owls, and other birds of prey had found their place in tribal lore, though many of the species were now extinct in the Appalachians. His vision was just as likely to be of a bear, fox, or maybe even a mountain lion. Though there was no reason for the creature to be of either air or Earth. Perhaps it would be a trout, a frog, maybe even a salamander. No reason to think his spirit mirror, what some Northwestern tribes called the “totem,” would be a noble one. He’d suffered little nobility in his life, aside from the single-minded dedication that had lifted him to the heights of world-class wrestling. But was it true nobility if it was inspired by weakness, a sense of worthlessness, an inferiority complex fueled by bloodline?