August Ansel - Shadow Road

Talus dropped the stick at Curran’s feet and Curran tossed it again, this time pivoting himself to the left so that he faced away from their curious audience. “How many are there?” he asked, not turning around.

“Looks like four,” she murmured. “Three women and a man.”

“Saw them,” said Handy. “Definitely been watching us.”

“He waved at me,” said Arie. She wandered down to the water and made a show of looking at Kory’s burgeoning new collection of seashells.

“I’m going to keep them,” he said.

“These are really fragile,” she told him, touching the two almost-whole sand dollars in his palm. “Come on with me, now. Handy’s going to show you how to catch your food.”

“What is it?” His mop of blond hair stood on end, catching the onshore salt breeze and ruffling around his face.

“Clams,” she said. She steered him back up the strand. “Go see.”

Renna came up beside her as Kory trotted off. “Everything okay?”

Arie nodded and hooked her arm through Renna’s as though they were on a careless morning stroll. “For now, keep your eyes on our fellows,” she said, pointing at Curran, Handy, and Kory. “But when you have a chance, take a careful glance at the group just north. A man, three women, midway between the dunes and the water.”

Renna nodded and pointed off to the stand of rock to the south, playing at busy conversation. “What’s up with them?” She smiled, but her voice was tense.

“Maybe something, maybe nothing,” said Arie. “He was working awfully hard to make acquaintance, though. Gave me a big wave.”

“Fuck.”

“Indeed.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” said Arie. “We’ll keep an eye out. See what happens.” Kory and Curran were playing keep-away with Talus, who leaped ferociously after the little piece of driftwood they tossed back and forth. “Hey,” Arie called. “Are you ready to work for your supper?”

“Supper?” asked Renna. “What’s she talking about?”

“Clams!” said Kory. “We’re going to dig them up. That’s why so many people are digging out here. See?” He looked around meaningfully. “Clams. Handy’s going to teach me.”

“Where is Handy?” asked Arie.

Kory drew close and whispered in her ear. “He went back to camp to get something, but he doesn’t want anyone to see him.”

“Good,” said Arie. “What you can do is get us—”

“Get firewood,” he said. “Am I right?”

“Always,” she said. “You’re our firewood mastermind. The captain of conflagration.” She pointed behind them, just above the high-tide line where the strand ran up into the dunes. “There should be more than enough driftwood up there to keep us going. Make sure it’s nice and dry,” she said, “and never mind any pieces that are loaded with sand. They’ll be heavier, and they won’t burn worth a darn.”

“Come on, Talus!” he shouted, and they tore up the sand together, the boy’s arms pumping and Talus bounding along with a big doggy grin on her face.

“One hundred percent energy,” said Renna.

Curran joined them, slapping sand out of his cap and yanking it back on. He pulled the bill low over his eyes and surreptitiously made a quick inventory of the various people nearby. At Arie’s suggestion, he’d strapped Kory’s rifle on his back when they left camp. The combination of his stature, the unexpected weapon, and a generous dose of travel grime gave him an intimidating air.

“Looks like our wannabe playmate has moved down the beach,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the rocks.

“Glad to hear it,” said Arie. “I don’t fancy an audience.” She shaded her eyes with one flat palm and looked up at him. “Better let me hold onto that gun awhile,” she said.

“Why’s that?”

“You’re going to be busy digging.”

“Digging,” Curran said, slipping the rifle off his shoulder and handing it to her.

Arie took it by the strap and slung it over her head. “Yes. Make the first hole right here, will you?” she asked, pointing to a flat spot near her. “I need a fire pit.”

A few minutes later, Arie was tending a good, hot fire. The pile of wood next to her was big enough to last all night, more than adequate for their needs. Handy had brought her their one large metal pot, a lightweight aluminum one Kory’s mom had used as a dishpan. From the narrow asphalt strip that served for parking once upon a time, he’d also scavenged a five-gallon plastic bucket: Fixitall Joint Compound, the scratched and faded label read. It was partially melted at the rim, but otherwise serviceable.

“Go down and fill this with water,” Handy told Kory. “Full as you can.” Kory took off at a run. “Try not to get too much sand in it,” Handy yelled after him. When the boy had lugged the bucket back to the fire, Arie filled the cook pot and set it aside for boiling later.

“You’ll need the rest for your clams,” she said.

While Arie tended the fire, Handy gathered everyone around him and commenced teaching them the art of digging razor clams. “That’s a clam show,” he said, pointing to a small circular hole in the surface of the wet sand. He fell on his knees and thrust in his bare hands, pulling out big double-handfuls, going straight down. He was elbow-deep when he stopped digging and started grappling. “Gotcha,” he said, hoisting the clam free. It was a flat, dark oblong, long as his hand, siphon dangling out one end. Handy dropped it in the bucket of seawater.

“Score!” yelled Curran.

“Whoa,” Kory breathed. He and Talus peered into the bucket at this strange treasure. He pointed at the yellow-white siphon. “Is that it’s, uh…”

“That’s his garden hose,” said Handy, smiling. “He uses it for breathing and eating. Now let’s see how many you can dig.”

Soon they were all hard at work, watching for shows and digging furiously. Talus was delighted to join them, throwing up a massive spray of sand behind her.

“I got one!” yelled Kory, eyes bulging with excitement. He wrestled out a monster clam and admired it before dropping it in the catch-bucket.

“Dude, that’s a whopper,” said Curran. He’d gotten one half the size of Kory’s.

“We should have a contest,” Kory said. His blond hair was full of sand and stood up in big salty clumps.

“Biggest clam?” asked Renna, breathing hard and scooping madly. She paused and pulled out her trophy. “Or most clams total? This is number four.” She waggled her eyebrows at them and added it to the bucket.

Within an hour, the Fixitall bucket was packed as it could be. They were exhausted, exhilarated, and absolutely spackled with sand. The fire was roaring, and they circled near it, getting warm, brushing layers of sand off clothes and skin as they dried.

“Who won?” said Handy.

“Are you kidding?” said Curran. He hefted the bucket by the handle and brought it up to shoulder height. “Game, set, match. Team us beats team clams by a landslide.”

“The proof of the pudding is in the tasting, though,” said Arie. “Or in this case, the proof of the clam is inside the shell. Let’s get in and see the good part.”

Handy rested one hand on the top of Kory’s gritty head. “If your first dig isn’t the biggest in the bucket, I’ll eat my hat.”

“Get over here and pay attention,” said Arie, “because I’m not cleaning all of these by myself.” She had her pot of water set over a pile of coals in such a way that it simmered gently, and another scavenged container—the bottom part of a styrofoam cooler she’d scoured with sand and filled with clean seawater. “Kory,” she said, “hand me a clam. Make it a big one.”

Kory did as he was told and Arie popped it into the gently boiling pot.