The River (3 page)

The sound of the plane engine changing sound—decreasing in pitch—awakened him, and he was embarrassed to see that he had drooled in his sleep.

He wiped his chin.

They were going down.

Brian felt himself stiffen when the plane nosed down. He couldn’t help it. But the descent was gradual and controlled and even. When they were still well above the forest, the pilot slowed the plane still further and dropped the flaps. The plane almost seemed to stop in the air, floated on down toward the lake below and to the front, and Brian remembered the last time he’d “landed” on a lake in a bush plane.

If he’d known about flaps or how to use them, he wouldn’t have been going half the speed when he hit the water. With a gentle landing he might have had time to help the pilot, get the survival pack out. He watched the pilot carefully, noted everything he did, and realized how lucky he’d been. The pilot flared the plane out so that when it came down to the lake it seemed to be barely moving. He worked the wheel and rudder pedals to make it float down slowly and easily. Brian had more on less arrowed the plane into the water—through the trees and down—and it was a miracle that he hadn’t been killed.

The answer to his problem had come to him while he slept.

It was simple.

The pilot was all business now, his hands working the controls, easing the throttle, settling the plane the last bit down to the lake.

But Derek turned and smiled at Brian. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

And the lake
was
pretty. It was almost perfectly round, pushing out toward an egg shape slightly, but only slightly.

At the bottom edge of the lake and off to the right a short distance a river flowed south and east, and it was amazing to Brian how accurate the map had been.

They had gone over it on the dining room table, showing his mother where they would be, but looking down on it now, it seemed to be almost a model made of the map. The blue of the lake matched the blue of the water on the map and the river cutting southeast through the green forest looked just as it had on the map—delicate, winding.

Derek said something to the pilot—Brian couldn’t hear over the sound of the engine—and the pilot nodded and banked the plane to the right, more toward the river, and put it softly onto the lake.

There was absolutely no wind, and the water was as smooth as a mirror. Brian watched out of his window as the float came down, saw its reflection in the water, closer, closer until it touched itself and skimmed across the flatness, settling more and more until the plane slowed nearly to a stop.

The pilot headed the plane toward a clearing to the right of where the river left the lake, nudging the throttle now and then to keep it moving on the floats until it at last slid through some green reeds and bumped the shoreline.

He cut the engine.

“We’re here,” Derek said, his voice loud in the sudden silence. “Let’s get unloaded.”

He turned and Brian could see that he was excited.

Like a kid, he thought. He’s as excited as a kid.
I’m
the kid here, and I’m not excited. That’s because he doesn’t know. I know and he doesn’t.

Derek climbed out onto the float—moving a little stiffly and Brian noted that he wasn’t very athletic, seemed not to be too coordinated—and stepped ashore.

The pilot stayed in his seat and Brian moved the passenger seat forward and clambered out of the plane, stepped on the float and then to the dry grass.

Neat, he thought, neat and clean. The thought came into his mind that it was a beautiful day. The sun was out, there were small popcorn clouds moving across the sky, it was a soft summer afternoon.

Then, instantly—in just that part of a second—he changed. Completely. He became, suddenly, what he’d been before at the lake. Part of it, all of it; inside all of it so that every . . . single . . . little . . .
thing
became important.

He didn’t just hear birds singing, not just a background sound of birds, but each bird. He listened to each bird. Located it, knew where it was by the sound, listened for the sound of alarm. He didn’t just see clouds, but light clouds, scout clouds that came before the heavier clouds that could mean rain and maybe wind. The clouds were coming out of the northwest, and that meant that weather would come with them. Not could, but would. There would be rain. Tonight, late, there would be rain.

His eyes swept the clearing, then up the edge of the clearing, and in those two sweeps he knew—he
knew
the clearing and the woods. There was a stump there that probably held grubs; hardwood there for a bow, and willows there for arrows; a game trail, probably deer, moving off to the left meant other things, porcupines, raccoons, bear, wolves, moose, skunk would be moving on the trail and into the clearing. He flared his nostrils, smelled the air, pulled the air along the sides of his tongue in a hissing sound and tasted it, but there was nothing. Just summer smells. The tang of pines, soft air, some mustiness from rotting vegetation. No animals. At least, nothing fresh.

Derek had seen the change, was staring at him. “What happened?”

Brian shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Yes—something did. You changed. Completely. You’re not the same person.”

Brian shrugged. “I was just . . . looking at things. Seeing them.”

“Tell me,” Derek said. He took a notebook out of his pocket. “Tell me everything you saw.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Shouldn’t we let the pilot go first?”

Derek turned as if seeing the plane for the first time. “Oh, yes. I almost forgot. He has to get back. Let’s unload, and then he can go and you can tell me—”

“No.”

“What?”

Brian had made the decision just as he dozed off in the plane and it had settled into his mind while he slept. He knew it was the right thing to do. “We’re not going to unload.”

“What are you talking about?”

Brian looked at the lake, the clearing, the clouds. Seven, eight hours to rain. “I mean, if we unload all that gear—everything but the kitchen sink, like you said—this whole business will be ruined, wasted.”

“I don’t see what you mean—what happens if we have trouble?”

Brian nodded. “That’s it exactly. We
have
trouble. That’s what this is all about. You want to learn, but if you have all that backup, it’s just more games. It’s not real. You wouldn’t have that if the situation were real, would you?”

“But we don’t have to use it. We don’t have to use any of it.”

Brian smiled—a small, almost sad smile. “I promise you, absolutely promise you, that if that stuff is here you will use it and I will use it. By the third day, when the hunger really starts to work and the mosquitoes keep coming and coming and there isn’t any food or a tent and we know it’s just there, just in the bag—I guarantee you we will use it. We won’t be able
not
to use it.”

So much talk, Brian thought. Just jabber, jabber all the time. Like bluejays. We stand here and talk, and in seven, eight hours it will rain and we don’t have shelter or dry wood or a fire going. Talk. “Leave it all in the plane. Leave it or I’m flying out of here right now. I know what’s coming and I don’t want to waste it.”

“But we told your mother . . .”

Brian hesitated, then sighed. “I know. But the rule still holds. If we unload, I’m going home. Period. I’ll take responsibility.”

Derek studied him. “You mean it.”

“Absolutely.”

“How about a compromise?”

“What do you mean?”

“We keep the radio in case there’s trouble—serious trouble. Then at least we can call for help.”

Brian rubbed his neck, thinking. It wouldn’t be the same. Even the radio would taint it. Still, he
had
told his mother not to worry and if he insisted on not using the radio, absolutely not using it . . .

“All right.”

Derek nodded and stepped past him, balanced along the float and reached into the plane. He said something to the pilot, who nodded and looked at Brian through the windshield with a strange look, a studying look. Then he smiled and waved through the plastic and Brian nodded and waved in return.

Derek came back ashore with the radio—a small unit with a weatherproof seal and fresh nicad batteries. He also carried a small plastic briefcase.

“For my papers,” he said. “I have to take notes, write things down.”

Brian nodded, smiling inside. Derek sounded almost like Brian sounded when he was speaking to his mother or father and wanted to do something. Pleading.
For my papers
. . .

It was a strange feeling for Brian, the role reversal with an adult. He was in change of an adult and he supposed in this situation it was the best way. But he was uncomfortable with it, the business of being in control over an adult—or anybody, for that matter.

The plane had to be turned. It was nosed into the reeds and the pilot opened the window and asked them to aim the plane around so it could taxi out and take off.

Derek and Brian worked it back and around, wading in the water, pushing at the floats—the water felt warm to Brian, shore warm—and when they had it aimed well out, the pilot started the engine.

He taxied away without looking back and as soon as he was clear of the reeds he gunned the engine, increasing speed until the plane was roaring across the lake.

It bounced once, then again, and was airborne, climbed well over the trees at the end of the lake, circled and came back oven them, the pilot wagging the wings as they watched, and then it was gone.

Gone.

“Well,” Derek said. “Here we are. Alone.”

Brian nodded. He felt a strange loss at watching the plane leave. An emptiness.

“What’s next?” Derek asked. “How do we get the ball in play?”

Brian looked at him. A game, it’s all a game. “A fire. We need a fire and shelter. Soon.”

Derek looked at him, a question in his eyes.

Brian looked at the sky. “It’s warm afternoon now, but with evening the mosquitoes will come and we need smoke to keep them away until coolness in the morning. And we need shelter because it’s going to rain in about six and a half hours.”

“Six and a half hours?”

“Sure. Can’t you smell it?”

Derek took a breath through his nose, shook his head. “Nope. Not a thing.”

“You will,” Brian said. “You will. Now, let’s . . . get the ball rolling.” And he set off looking for a fire stone.

T
hat first night Brian decided he was insane to have come back, insane to have agreed to do it, and insane for sending the plane away with all that wonderful equipment.

Especially the tent.

Brian had allowed them to have almost no survival gear. He decided that not all people put in this position would have a hatchet, so even that old friend was left at home.

He and Derek each had a knife, the kind that folds like a pocketknife, but is bigger and is worn on the belt in a leather case.

Other than that they had what was in their pockets.

Some change, a few dollars in paper money. Derek had a large nail clipper and some credit cards, Brian had pictures of his mother and Deborah in his wallet.

“That’s it?” Derek had said early in the evening, while the sun was still on them but low in the west, past the tops of the trees at the edge of the clearing.

“That’s it.” Brian had nodded.

“It’s not much, is it?”

Brian had said nothing. The truth was, it
wasn’t
much—especially for two people. They would need twice as much of everything. Twice as much food, a larger shelter—it changed things.

All Brian had needed to worry about before, during the Time, was himself. And that had been bad enough.

The thought of the second person, especially one as green as Derek, had not somehow hit him until just then, in late afternoon.

And then it didn’t matter.

The plane was gone.

Things began to disintegrate fast after that.

It was one thing, Brian knew, to have a plan, to want to do things. It was something else to actually get them done.

Brian could not find a fire stone, so there was no fire.

Without fire there could be no smoke, and without smoke they had no protection against the mosquitoes.

They came with first dark and they were as bad as Brian had remembered. Thick clouds of them, whining, filling their eyes and ears and nostrils.

They had made a crude lean-to—Brian missed the overhanging rock with his shelter back inside a great deal. Clearly it would not stop the rain, though they had tried to make rough shingles of old pieces of half-rotted bark, yet it was a start.

But for some reason—some protective thought—they had crawled back into the lean-to when the mosquitoes first came.

As if, Brian thought, they could hide from the little monsters.

“God,” Derek said in a whisper, a tight sound in the darkness back in the lean-to. “This is insane.”

They were sitting with their jackets pulled over their heads, but due to Derek’s size, when he pulled the jacket up, it pulled his shirt up from his waist and exposed a bit of skin there, and when the mosquitoes found that, he pulled the shirt down and it exposed his neck, and when he hunched to cover that, they could get his waist again, and in a small time he was jerking up and down like a yo-yo.

“You must settle,” Brian told him. “In your mind. There are some fights you can’t win, and I think this must be one of them. It will get worse and worse until after the middle of the night, when the coolness comes and the mosquitoes will stop. Or at least a lot of them will.”

And just the words had helped, had calmed Derek and himself as well.

Dozing, listening to the whine of them around his head in the dark as they tried to find a way through the jacket, he thought,
it was the way
. It was the way of things here. The mosquitoes and the night and the coolness that he knew was coming were just the way of it—part of being here—and he thought he should tell Derek, but decided to keep his mouth shut.

Derek would find it for himself. Or he would not, just as Brian had found things out for himself.