No Call Too Small
Page 13
This is the critical point where tiny mistakes join to make a disaster, from the inexperienced leader and his inability to enforce life-vest usage, to the lack of a weather radio or other forecast information, the lack of camping gear that might have made good ballast, the compromised physical and mental condition of the leader, the lack of nearby boaters, the lack of road access to the far side of the lake, the failure of the leader to teach standard procedures in case of capsize, and most importantly, the lack of alcohol. Levi starts swimming toward his life vest, which has now become life itself to him. Right away he’s doing everything wrong: leaving the canoe, exhausting himself swimming after something he’ll never catch.
Luke turns around to look at me, clearly expecting something as small, sharp waves form on the lake. I slump in the back and spend a few indulgent seconds feeling sorry for myself. First, get a hold of that other canoe. We’re lucky it’s half-filled with water, because they move fast in the wind when they’re empty. Then we tie them together at the middle crosspiece, doing figure eights with every piece of rope we can find, including our shoelaces. Next we drag Mark’s skinny butt aboard and put him to work right away bailing out his canoe with a pot. I get Luke to keep his finger pointed at Levi so we don’t lose him, a real possibility as he continues to chase his life vest like an idiot. Even with two of us bailing, it takes much too long to empty the canoe. The waves are about one foot high and growing fast, great conditions for losing a small, bobbing head. I have to glance at Luke’s pointing finger several times to locate Levi as he gets farther away. Eventually we catch up to him, then his life vest, which he now wears without hesitation. Someone may have learned a lesson. I pause for a moment to celebrate a successful rescue, alarmed by the sounds coming from my liver as it disintegrates.
It’s a frightening wind that snaps pine trees, dead and living, and blows the crests off whitecaps, but at least it’s blowing in the right direction. No one can deny how hard this sucks but we’re ten times better than ten minutes ago, except for the sea serpents. Attracted by the noise perhaps, or Levi thrashing in the water, four or five sea serpents trail us, not too aggressive for now, perhaps balancing potential tastiness against the fight we might have in us. No one wants to work too hard for dinner. Predictably, they dive whenever I turn around, but I feel them, one close enough to warm my neck with its breath. If I keep my head forward and look out of the corner of my eye, I can see them surface.
We are working as a team finally, paddling our guts out, but I don’t think we’ll make it. The waves are big enough that the canoes lurch forward and surf on them, great fun if you aren’t already scared shitless. I close my eyes and when I open them, the lake is red. I know it’s not blood, the obvious choice. There’s something about the way it foams that seems very familiar. I dip my finger in and taste it. Wine! Kowpers Lake is filled with subpar Pinot. Keep your loaves, keep your fishes; water into wine is the important one. The kids don’t seem to notice, no doubt in shock, or terrified into tunnel vision, or ignoring any information that does not fit with what they know. It’s time for a reality check. Luke and Mark aren’t willing to admit that Levi has snake eyes. It’s not a judgement of Levi, I just want everyone to admit it. Luke won’t even support me on the serpent thing.
—The probability of a giant sea serpent living in a lake like this is very low. There is no possible food source in this lake that could sustain an animal that size.
—What about a food source on the lake? Did you think about that?
Waves build and wine stains my paddle. The kids may be delusional, but as long as they keep paddling, I don’t care. Their plan may be to sacrifice me to the serpents. One good crack from a paddle and I’d be marinating in the wake. It could never be as simple as being impaled on six-inch teeth and sent down a long digestive tunnel. They will each want a piece of me. While I wait for the boys to attack, we sail across the surface of a giant wineglass where six feet under there is death, and twelve feet under there is death, layer on layer of death going right to the bottom. We are floating on top of it. Parents paid to have their children float on the surface of death. My heart drums against my rib cage, not in response to our current drama, but just because it wants to. My lungs struggle to suck in enough wine-scented air to keep the damn thing going. Tremors are hidden well enough in the constant motion of paddling.
I cup my hands and scoop out some wine. Levi is watching as I drop my face in it and guzzle. I haven’t felt the breath of a serpent for quite a while now. They may have left us. And the wind is not quite as strong. And is that the camp I see ahead, finally standing out from the shoreline? No, that’s a ridge, not the camp. No, the wind was just taking a breath. And the serpents have scattered, but why? Could it be that a much bigger threat is coming? Could it be that the mother of all serpents is coming, hard to see at first but now clear in the distance, a leisurely pursuit for this monster with at least a hundred feet between the humps?
—We’re being chased by a giant sea serpent. THAT MEANS PADDLE FASTER, KIDS!
Perhaps I’ve hit the right tone of panic, because they’re all pulling for shore now as we surge ahead on three-foot waves, both canoes straining against the lashing that binds them. There’s no point in checking for the mother behind us. Either she’ll catch us or she won’t. No point in looking, not even once. It would be best, though, if she were big enough to swallow both canoes in one bite. We’re close to the camp now, but it looks like the landing might be complicated. Waves reach as far as the embankment, leaving no safe area to land. We’re coming in, not much of a choice there. The waves slam the bow ends of our homemade catamaran into the bank, and then we’re out in the surf and all I can think about is the bow pinning one of the kids. I grab hold of each kid and heave them onto the lawn. I hear Luke asking about the canoes, but I’m already walking toward the parking lot to find that canteen in my truck. Under the driver’s seat, of course, my shaking fingers working the cap loose. Oh yes, oh Jesus, oh God, it enters me, I enter it, into every cell.
I find Hannah in the main lodge, sitting in a big chair overlooking the lake. I sit next to her and look out on killer waves that seem flat from here. I guess you had to be there. The wind is already dying, but toppled trees and blown-over tables are proof that we were in the shit.
—People were talking about your landing. Someone said that when you heaved those kids onto the bank it looked like they were spit out of Jonah’s whale.
—Yeah, Jonah, what a guy. Someone didn’t pack us any food.
—We had plenty. In fact, we had two of everything.
—You were the south-side campers?
—Yeah, you were the howling demons?
The stern camp director stands behind us with the look of a man of authority whose expectations are not being met. A small knot of concerned parents seems to be worked up, looking over at me with narrowed eyes, as if to stoke their rage. Sea serpents are nothing compared to angry parents. I take another drink from the canteen. I would trade everything for you. I would kill for you. How could I ever leave you? The director will soon attempt something gently hostile, screaming a message without raising his voice, or throwing me out without touching me. I reach out for Hannah’s hand and she smiles. I think about all the times we did not have sex because I had a condom on.
—I have a database of lies. But it would be good if you didn’t leave.
I don’t know if her white light cancels my black ooze. We could have a long discussion about who deserves what and who is worthy of whom, but when you’re dying of thirst, you don’t ask if you deserve that glass of water; you just grab it. I was a useful person before I was this. I have a job and there are still some people I call friends. There are few things I do well, but I’ve canoed before.
Oscar Martens has been writing stories and poems since George Michael carelessly whispered. He lives with his wife in Burnaby, BC.
I’m grateful to the editors who published many of these stories in slightly different forms.
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“No Call Too Small”
published in Grain, 39:4
“The Schadenfreude Rail”
published in The Antigonish Review, No. 170
submitted to The Journey Prize by editor
“Behaviour Befitting a Young Man”
published in Prairie Fire, Volume 25, No. 3
“Breaking on the Wheel”
published in Queen’s Quarterly, Volume 114, No. 3
published in The Journey Prize Stories 20: The Best of Canada’s New Writers
“Capture and Release”
published in The Chariton Review, Volume 31, No. 2
“How Beautiful, How Moving”
published in Descant, No. 130
submitted to The Journey Prize by editor
“The Janitor”
published in The Malahat Review, No. 150
submitted to the National Magazine Awards by editor
“I See a Man”
published in Event, Volume 40, No. 3
“Killers Are Useful”
published in Event, Volume 37, No. 3
“Lake Pinot”
published in Prairie Fire, Volume 29, No. 4
submitted to the National Magazine Awards by editor
submitted to the Western Magazine Awards by editor
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