Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

The woods had a rich, earthy smell, almost that of a corpse. The smell had grown stronger and more primal the further up the steep trail they’d hiked. The group had debarked at a popular scenic overlook, where rubbers and beer cans were the most significant signs of wildlife, but they hadn’t met any fellow hikers in the last two hours. The casual outdoors enthusiasts rarely ventured into this kind of terrain, which had made it all the more appealing to the ProVentures marketing department.

“We’ll be at the falls in an hour,” Bowie said, not shouting but in a firm enough voice that everyone could hear, even Farrengalli. “Don’t worry about bonuses. We’ll all do fine once we make it out of here alive.”

Raintree smiled to himself. The guide had said “once” instead of “if.” Raintree didn’t really expect anyone to die, but he knew ProVentures wanted to play the whole thing up like some kind of reality show, where a team of rugged individualists had to work together while simultaneously competing to see who was strongest. The company would be disappointed if there wasn’t at least a broken leg out of the trip, though they also wanted to prove the safety of their new inflatable rafts.

Raintree had drawn short straw and a $2,000 bonus for being one of two lucky “contestants” to carry the raft. The Muskrat was surprisingly light, weighing only four pounds, and was made of a synthetic rubber blend that ProVentures claimed was “the ultimate evolution of the kayak.” Slogans, catchphrases, sucker language. This trip was all about the hype, and if Raintree had to play the “noble savage” yet one more time, that was okay, because this time he had his own agenda.

He touched the medicine bag at his side. White magic, white medicine.

He was only half Cherokee, but his father’s side was about as genetically pure as possible, given the tribe’s long and civilized association with the white settlers before President Jackson declared war. Most of the Cherokee that once populated the North Carolina, western Georgia, and eastern Tennessee regions had been rounded up and driven west in an infamous forced march fraught with disease, exhaustion, and death. The Trail of Tears led to a reservation in Oklahoma, which the Cherokee shared with a handful of other Native American tribes. The Cherokee were among the smartest and most adaptable tribes, the first to form a written language in an attempt to negotiate with the federal government. Wisdom and diplomacy didn’t fare well against the U.S. Army’s rifles, yet more proof that the pen was never mightier than the sword. However, not all were relocated, and scattered members of the tribe that called itself Aniyunwiya, “the real human beings,” managed to survive the settlement push.

Over a century and a half later, the Cherokee still clung to a tiny reservation in western North Carolina, the debt for the tragedy paid in the form of a sparkling gambling casino. Raintree wasn’t bitter about such things. History had rolled over millions of victims, the human tide swept on, and the best one could hope for was to find personal peace. Which was his mission now.

His Cherokee ancestors had trekked these mountains, had hunted the ridges in the summer, setting up seasonal camps along the river. For a young man, the trip was a challenge of courage, journeying alone for days at a time on a vision quest. Hunger and exhaustion may have contributed to the effect, but the male didn’t return until he had encountered the animal that would serve as his spirit guide. Raintree might never be a warrior, and he was already approaching middle age, but this trip offered him a final chance to follow the distant footsteps of his forefathers.

Even if he walked with palefaces.

“Pick up the pace, you guys,” Farrengalli shouted. Raintree hoped the Italian’s own vision quest included a skunk.

“We’re ahead of schedule,” Bowie said, now some thirty feet behind Raintree but moving again. Dove Krueger was in front of Farrengalli, and Raintree figured the loudmouth was ogling her ass.

“I want to get camp set up so I can munch some of these dee — licious ProVentures N-R-Gee Bars,” Farrengalli said.

“‘Nature’s tasty boost,’” said the company man at the head of the group, quoting a television commercial that ran on a series of MTV extreme sports shows.

“Plenty of time for a campfire, Farrengalli,” Bowie said. “Don’t get your Lycra in a twist.”

Raintree walked on, wishing he were wearing moccasins instead of five-hundred-dollar custom boots.

Something was out here, he knew. Call it his medicine, his vision, his destiny. In this forest that was older than his people, older than all people, something waited.

The Rook returned minutes, or maybe centuries, later and knelt at the lip of the opening. “Here. I found this at Goodall’s campsite.”

He tossed a rope into the hole and it bounced off Castle’s shoulder. The rope was about the thickness of a clothesline, but made of threaded nylon and strong. The Rook belayed the rope against a nearby tree trunk and said, “Get a grip, partner.”

Castle wrapped the rope a couple of times around his palms. At the first tug, the rope tightened and burned his flesh. Castle bit back a grunt of pain. Samford dug his heels into the ground and yanked again. This time Castle wriggled his waist and felt the soil and rocks loosen around him. He slid up a few inches, but more dirt trickled down from the raw slope above. Castle wasn’t sure whether Samford could pull him free before the whole rim of the opening collapsed.

His boot was hung. He kicked it free, wondering if a tree root had fallen in the hole before he had. He pictured his bootlaces tangled in the wormy white roots. Samford tugged the line again, and hot curls of pain peeled from Castle’s shoulder sockets. This time, he moved upward a good six inches, and now he could move his hips enough to wriggle free.

“You’re getting there, Rook,” Castle said. Above him, Samford tied off the distance he’d gained, then dug in again and leaned back. Castle eased upward, incongruously imagining he was being squirted from the womb. Only this womb was the cold belly of the Earth, and its progeny was thirty-five years old, a sick sack of blood, bone, and skin. Not old enough yet for day diapers, too young to walk on its own.

Castle felt himself drop as the rope suddenly went slack. He popped back into his previous position like a cork rammed into the neck of a wine bottle.

“Damn,” Samford said. “Did you see that?”

Castle’s breath stalled between his lungs and throat. “Goodall?”

“Some kind of giant bird.”

“Well, get me out of here and maybe we can roast its ass for dinner.”

Samford restored the tension on the rope and once again worked Castle free. A stone the size of a fist tumbled down and bounced off Castle’s chest, dinging the edge of a rib bone. Darkness had taken a bigger bite of the sky, and the air seemed heavier with the deepening night. Castle shivered, wishing he was sitting around the campfire and talking shop with The Rook, going over Goodall’s assessment, planning strategy. Castle was experienced enough to know once a deal started going down, even the most carefully arranged plan gave way to improvisation. That meant instinct and cunning always trumped intelligence, which was probably why Goodall had managed to escape capture so long.

We’ll see about that, once I get my sorry ass out of this bottleneck.

Castle’s thighs emerged from the narrow gap that had attempted to suck him underground. He fought to find purchase with his feet, the rope cutting into the soft meat above his wrists. He got one knee out and lodged himself against the moist soil so he wouldn’t slip back into the hole.