Питер Геллер - The River

“Jesus, Wynn, cut it out! I got this.”

“Sorry.”

Jack never spoke to him so sharply.

The other side had a more gentle slope, and where the moss and stones were wet Jack edged down sideways, and then they were on a grassy beach at the shore of the lake. The fleets of cloud had thickened rank on rank and it was now an almost unbroken overcast to the far horizon. It was a long lake, maybe nine miles. The water was slate-gray under a northerly wind and the waves pushed away to the farthest shore. Nothing on the water, nothing moving along the relentless wall of woods. No sign of a bird. It was desolate and leaden.

Paddling south would be easy with the wind at their backs. If the wind kept up and they got into a longer reach, the paddle back north would be a bitch. Every wave would spray up into their faces and lap the gunwales. Jack squatted and Wynn helped him flip the boat to the beach. They tugged off their sweaters and Jack unkinked his back. It felt like they’d almost run the distance. They should have: the sun was a third of the way to the trees.

Wynn handed his friend the water bottle and Jack squeezed it and drank the whole thing. “Thanks.”

Wynn walked to the water and refilled it and drank. He thought how here, in the lee of the trees, the water was almost slick with calm, how the waves didn’t start for over a hundred yards out. Jack seemed ornery and edgy. Well. There was a lot to be edgy about, he guessed. He filled the bottle again and walked back.

“Something bad happened,” Jack said.

“Whadda you mean?”

“I don’t know what I mean.”

“Well, there’s a woman missing. Up here. That’s bad. Really bad.” Wynn offered the bottle again and Jack held up a hand. Wynn said, “He’s certainly rattled. He just lost his wife. Also, he’s injured. I should’ve taken a look at it.” Why hadn’t he? “When were we going to tell him about the fire? God,” Wynn said. “Gimme a chew.” Jack handed him the tin. Wynn said, “I’ve been thinking about those two dickheads on the island.”

“Me, too.”

“That trolling motor was heavy. They can haul ass. Way faster than paddling. I guess they could have caught up to them.”

“Yeah.” Jack said it, but he wasn’t sure what he meant. He wasn’t sure of anything. He turned to Wynn. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before we get caught out.” He meant caught out by nightfall. They shoved the boat in the water and picked up the paddles and lay in along the eastern shore.

They paddled hard, and with the wind they were at their previous camp in less than an hour. They could see their fire ring. Jack was in the stern, steering. He brought them in close. They paddled by it and surfed the small waves downwind. A wave would pick them up and tip them forward and they’d gather speed and it would pass under; in the trough they’d wallow and it felt like they’d stopped dead but they hadn’t. They paddled another half mile of thick woods to another tributary creek; they could see it running shallow through the sandbanks of its own deposits and over the cobbles of the beach. A berm like a dune covered in fireweed lay behind it.

“It’s near here,” Jack said. “Where we heard them. This feels like it could have been the camp.”

Wynn shrugged. “Okay.” Jack steered them to the shore and Wynn hopped out in the shallows and pulled the bow of the boat onto gravel. They walked inland. High on the beach there was another fire pit, remnants of char, who knew how old. They glanced at each other. Jack lifted his chin and called: “Anybody here? Hey! Hey!”

Wynn bent to the sand between stones and picked up a hairclip, a blue metal barrette. He held it up. “No telling when, right?”

Jack didn’t answer. He called again. Nothing. They walked south over the cobbles of the shore until they hit the creek. There were no other signs. Wynn called now, then Jack, and their shouts were carried away on the wind. They waded across the stream and lifted their voices, but when they got to a spur of dense woods their cries hit the wall of trees and died. The forest absorbed them. Nobody would make camp in the woods when there was an open beach and a creek nearby. They turned around.

After they crossed the stream again, they stood at a loss, looking out over the choppy water. Whatever they were going to do now, they’d better get after it: the sun had dropped and the whitecaps flecked more brightly in the long light of late afternoon and the air had chilled. Instinctively they moved inland toward the trees backing the beach and separated, each taking a different line. They’d search this spot that had at one time been someone’s camp, and then they’d hop back in the boat and head a little farther down the shore.

“Jack!” Wynn yelled, and he was running. Wynn had been a hockey star at Putney. For such a lanky tree he could haul ass. He was running up the beach, angling for the berm, and Jack saw what he was aiming for. The tall fireweed at the top of the rise was moving. It shook and stopped and moved again.

A person crawled in the weeds. A woman on her right side, stretching and bunching like a broken caterpillar. She had lost blood. Her head was oozing over the left temple. Her face was a mask. The blood had dried and cracked. She crawled in the tall pink flowers and her rain jacket was open and her down vest was soaked in dried blood and covered in bits of dirt and moss. The blood was almost black and the fireweed blossoms trembled against it. Her eyes were half open and swollen and her mouth worked but uttered no sound. Wynn’s first thought was, Jesus, a bear. She surprised a bear in the fog. He got to her first and his hands went right to her head. She jerked and writhed away. A whimper came from her throat and she tried to curl up. One arm went to protect her face.

Wynn had a hand on her shoulder and he was talking fast, saying, “Whoa, whoa! You’re okay, you’re okay! We’ve got you now, you’re all right, please don’t move, don’t, hold still, hold still.” The struggling subsided and she lay curled. “I’m Wynn, this is Jack. We’re here to get you out of here.” Wynn put his hands gently to her head and neck and kept talking, and it took a minute for the words to register, but she began to emit what sounded like sobs and her arm relaxed. Wynn glanced at Jack. He said softly, “Hey, we’re gonna roll you over, make sure your back’s okay. We’re gonna get you out of here.” It seemed to him she was listening. Her body went limp and he nodded to Jack and Jack went to her hips, and Wynn nodded again. “Ready?” “Yep.” “Okay, three, two, one…” And they rolled her. Ever so gently they turned her together full on her back and laid her on the sandy loam at the top of the berm.

She was covered and stained with dirt and lichen. Her mouth was working. “Okay, hold still.” Jack got his sweater off and Wynn pillowed it under the hollow of her neck. “Water bottle,” he said to Jack. Jack ran. Wynn reached a hand to the side of her throat and pressed gently. Thready pulse and fast. Shock. Hypothermia. Lucky she survived the night. He reached for his clip knife and thumbed it open and cut into his left sleeve at the elbow. He slashed it as best he could and ripped it free. When Jack came back with the bottle he doused the sleeve and began patting away the oozing blood at the side of her head. And then she began to moan. The boys glanced at each other and Wynn said, “Clean that up very gently.”

He reached for his belt and lifted the handset and keyed the mike, and said, “ Pierre? Pierre? We found her! She’s alive but—” and she moved, lurched beneath them, and then he heard Jack hiss, “Fuck!” and Wynn felt the sting of his backhand and the walkie-talkie went flying onto the stones below.