Jolted

by Arthur Slade

  Another roll of thunder rattled the world and disrupted any rational thought Newton had left: Go! Run! He skidded down the sidewalk, yanked open the first door he could see through the spots in his eyes and threw himself inside.

  The room was warm and stuffed with tourists. Behind a long, polished counter stood two women dressed in 1920s costumes, flapper-style calf-length dresses and cloche hats with feathers sweeping across their foreheads. Behind them a large sign read: TUNNELS OF MOOSE JAW: GET YOUR TICKETS HERE! The tunnels! Perfect! He pulled his wallet out of his sporran and joined the lineup.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentleman. I’m Fanny!” one of the women soon shouted. She picked up an umbrella. “I’ll be taking you across the street to begin our lovely underground adventure. It’ll be the bee’s knees and the cat’s meow! Just follow me!”

  Newton panicked. There was no way he’d risk going outside again. He noticed other tourists trundling up from a set of stairs in the center of the room. When no one was looking, he feigned interest in the memorabilia on the walls and casually inched his way to the stairwell. When the way was clear, he leaped down the steps, two at a time, into a dimly lit hallway—a tunnel, he presumed—deep below ground. He scampered through it, expecting a tour guide to pop up any second to stop him. Newton came to the entrance to a large room with walls of stone, where whiskey barrels and crates of fake hooch were stacked. He hid behind several whiskey barrels and shivered in his wet clothes.

  The lightning couldn’t get at him here, in the bowels of Moose Jaw. It was like being at home in the dome. Dark. Safe. He pulled Joséphine from his backpack and hugged her.

  “I’ll never win this, Joséphine,” he whispered to her, verging on tears. “I’ll never, ever, ever win. I’m staying here forever. Forever.” He could live off scraps left by the staff, the tourists. Maybe there was a secret stash of sandwiches that Al Capone had left in a wall safe. Or in a violin case. He’d drink whatever was in the barrels. He’d become the Phantom of the Tunnels of Moose Jaw.

  Joséphine oinked wildly.

  “Shhhhh,” Newton said. “This is home now. No need to check the weather every ten seconds. I’m sure we’ll find plenty to eat for both of us. Do you like insects? There’s a spider. A juicy spider.”

  She oinked again.

  He remembered his mother during lightning season. How she would stay in the dome for so many days in a row, a pale ghost fading more with each passing day, a strange look in her eyes.

  Newton heard the mumble of a crowd traipsing down the tunnel toward him. As they grew closer he could hear the tour guide pretending to sound like a mobster. As they entered the room, the guide said something about the distilling process. Newton huddled with Joséphine tight in his arms, trying to stay out of view, but the next thing he knew, a small boy was peering around the barrel, eyes wide. He screamed, “Who’s that? Is that Al Capone’s son? He’s wearing a skirt! Why’s he got a pig?”

  Newton grabbed his backpack and leaped up. The tourists were staring at him like he was a freak. The guide was pointing a fake tommy gun at Newton.

  I’m not a freak. And I won’t become some freak, hiding like a loser. What is wrong with me?

  He fled down the tunnel clutching Joséphine and ran back up the stairs. It was the right thing to do. He couldn’t live down there. And he couldn’t go back to the dome. He would tell his father tomorrow. As attractive as the offer had been, Newton had to find his way in the real world. The expedition would be his first test. He charged past the ticket counter, where a couple of Al Capone look-alikes gawked at him, and he flung open the front door.

  The glorious sun shone down on him all the way home.

  Newton’s Rules for Survival

  * * *

  15.Take shelter when you can count one minute or less between lightning and thunder. The closer those two are, the closer you are to death.

  16.Plan your evacuation in advance.

  17.If you are in a group, spread out. You don’t want the lightning to be conducted from person to person.

  18.If in the forest, seek shelter under a thick growth of bushes.

  19.Check the weather. Check it again.

  From: headmasterdumont@jerrypottsacademy.com

  Date: September 15, Monday

  Subject:The Expedition

  To: allgradesaddresses

  Dear Students,

  On Thursday of this week, we will be embarking on the first-quarter Outdoor Expedition.The buses will leave from the east gate at exactly 0815. This will give you time to have breakfast, your last civilized meal for over fifty-two hours. Be completely packed, and remember: The less you take the better. Those with allergies, asthma or other medical conditions must take their puffers, EpiPens or other medications.

  These are your destinations:

  Grade twelve: Banff National Park

  Grade eleven: The Great Sand Hills

  Grade ten: Lake Winnipeg

  Grade nine: Cypress Hills Interprovincial Park

  The goal for each participant in each region will be to find the talisman. The talisman’s actual shape, size and form will be a surprise, but you will know it when you see it.

  Visualize success.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Dumont, Headmaster

  Survival of the Fittest, and Then Some

  * * *

  Newton did up his kilt, his jaw set like stone. He tested the blade of his sgian dubh against his thumb. It was perfectly sharp, like his mind. He imagined himself holding the talisman high above his head as his fellow students cheered.

  Of course, he didn’t know what the talisman would be, but in his mind it was a sword. Or a large truffle. Either way he was holding it. In the five days since his visit to the tunnels, his resolve to complete the expedition had remained strong. This was something of a relief.

  He slid the sgian dubh into its sock sheath. Survival of the fittest. Kill or be killed. I will survive and overcome all obstacles.

  He visualized himself in the Hall of Heroes. He had caught up on his homework and was just one mark behind Violet. Winning the expedition would put him so far ahead, she would never catch up.

  He tightened his belt so that the buckle dug into his belly button. After a few seconds he loosened it. Whew.

  His class would soon board the bus to be dropped off in a remote location in the Cypress Hills. There they would fend for themselves for forty-eight hours.

  These are the things Newton put in his backpack:

  •Waterproof matches, for starting a fire

  •Eight-ounce stainless-steel Sierra cup, for cooking and drinking

  •Flint, in case the matches got wet

  •Fishhooks and a line, for catching fish

  •Compass, for finding his position

  •Medical kit, which contained several items, including potassium permanganate, to sterilize water and use as an antiseptic; surgical blades; and butterfly sutures, to hold the edges of wounds together. (If worst came to worst, he could use his fishing line for stitches.)

  • Long insulated pants, for staying warm at night. (His kilt didn’t seem like it was made for survival on frigid Saskatchewan nights.)

  He had his hat, gloves, layers of shirts and a jacket, dry socks, his sleeping bag and his canteen. He surveyed the room. That was everything.

  He picked Joséphine up off the bed and gave her one last hug.

  “You hold down the fort. I’ve left enough food to last until I’m back. I’ll miss you.”

  Then, as he was patting her head, Newton got an absolutely brilliant idea.

  A Few Facts About the Cypress Hills

  * * *

  The Cypress Hills are a collection of low rolling hills in the southwest corner of Saskatchewan. They shrug up against the flat prairie that surrounds them. It is one of the few areas of Saskatchewan not completely covered by ice in the last ice age. Consequently, the habitat is different from that of the flatland below. The weather’s different, too.


  The name comes from early French Canadian explorers, who used the phrase montagne de cyprès to describe the hills. The phrase is a little misleading; cypress trees don’t grow there. But the name has stuck, all the same.

  It was a great place to trade whiskey and hunt wolves. Oh, and massacre Indians. That’s what a pack of American wolfers did to a tribe of Assiniboine who happened to be hanging out there. This convinced the government to quickly send the Redcoats, also known as the North West Mounted Police, to patrol the hills. They were guided on their various treks by the ornery tracker Jerry Potts.

  The wolfers were driven away. So were the wolves and the bears. But the coyotes still howl across the hills. Elk still bugle. Trout splash in the water. Seven hundred species of plants thrive in the area, just waiting to welcome the students of Jerry Potts.

  The Fabulous Instructions

  * * *

  All fifty-two grade-nine students gathered at the edge of a ravine in the Cypress Hills. They were laden down with their gear and sleepy from the three-hour bus ride. Looming above them in the distance was Bald Butte.

  “I can’t believe they’re letting us loose,” Jacob said. “Will the hills ever be the same again?”

  Newton smiled. Jacob actually looked like he’d become stronger in the last few weeks. He was standing straight, even though his backpack was full.

  “The Cypress Hills won’t get the best of us,” Newton boasted. “It’s survival of the fittest, of course. Eat or be eaten. Now we’ll see who finds the talisman.”

  “I’ve been wondering about that.” Jacob scratched the back of his head. “Does that mean only one student will get full marks, and the rest of us partial marks?”

  Newton nodded. “It must. It’s a one-way ticket to the Hall of Heroes.”

  “But it seems unlikely that—”

  Mr. Dumont suddenly loomed in front of the two of them. He stared until Jacob backed up a few steps, like he’d been confronted by a bear. “Uh, we’ll finish this conversation later.”

  “How are you feeling, Newton?” Mr. Dumont asked.

  “Really well, sir.”

  Mr. Dumont reached into a backpack, pulled out what looked like a walkie-talkie and handed it to Newton, saying, “Everyone is getting one of these. I’ll be keeping tabs on the weather, but if you feel it’s too cloudy, even in the slightest, you call me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” he replied, annoyed that the weather reports were predicting a fifteen percent chance of rain. “But I don’t want to be treated special.”

  “You are a special case, Newton. That’s the reality. Accept your nature and accept Nature herself.”

  “I—I will, sir.”

  “Good luck, then.” Mr. Dumont strode into the flock of students, who parted like sheep before a Sasquatch. He cleared his throat. “Welcome to the first of four expeditions you will experience this year. I expect you to spend forty-eight hours surviving on your own in the wild. That is part of your test. We have studied. We have practiced. Now it’s time for action. I’ve given you each a walkie-talkie, which is to be used for dire emergencies. Or if you find the talisman.”

  “How do we find it?” Violet asked. “Where do we begin?” Newton took an appraising glance at her. With her backpack on tight and her hair tied back, she looked ready to sprint into the bush and massacre squirrels.

  “The answer to your questions will become clear to you during your trials. Once you have grasped the talisman, return it to its position and come back here. You may proceed using any means necessary.”

  Any means necessary. That sounded like Newton might have to fight for the talisman. He was ready.

  “That is all I will tell you. Now you must use your wits and what nature provides. And be sure to write your observations down in your field journal.” Mr. Dumont dumped his jug of water out onto the ground. “No one can take any water with them. Obviously, your first goal will be to find some. You have forty-eight hours, starting now.”

  “But where do we go?” Jacob asked.

  Mr. Dumont ignored his question. “Anyone still standing here in thirty seconds will lose five marks.”

  The class scattered. Newton ran northwest into the brush.

  “Hey, Newton!” Jacob called after him. “Newton, wait up!”

  He looked over his shoulder. What could Jacob want? This wasn’t about teamwork, for heaven’s sake. It was about survival.

  Newton sped up, even though his stomach was knotted with guilt. He’d get better marks if he worked on his own.

  “Newton! Newton!” As Newton disappeared into the brush, Jacob’s voice faded.

  After running through the dense forest for several minutes, Newton stopped at a ravine and looked around to be sure no one was following him. He trudged up a hill and through more thick brush. He sweated profusely in the noon heat. The knot refused to leave his stomach. But he had to do it alone. It’s a contest, Newton. It has nothing to do with friendship.

  Hoping he was far enough away from everyone, he collapsed on a fallen log and opened his backpack. Joséphine wriggled out. She sniffed around in a circle, rolled her eyes and settled down on her tummy with her tail end toward him, trembling.

  “Hey, girl,” Newton said. “Glad to have you along.”

  Dumont had said “any means necessary.” No one had mentioned that you couldn’t bring your pig.

  Newton wondered if he was cheating by bringing along a pig who had a knack for finding things, but he reasoned that, since Polynesians used to take pigs on their boats because the pigs could smell land, having Joséphine’s presence around was no different from carrying a compass.

  Well, here I am. Alone. Surviving. So far so good.

  He looked at the pig, who seemed to ignore him. “We’re gonna do just fine.” She turned away from him again and raised her snout in the air. Clearly she was miffed about having to spend so long in his backpack, which had been stuffed in the compartment under the bus.

  He looked in the pack to be sure she hadn’t left any surprises there. Nope.

  “Now, how do you think we find that talisman before everyone else?” he said as he picked her up. She rolled her eyes again and let out a great huff.

  Newton sighed and began walking, just to feel as though he was doing something.

  Somewhere out there was the talisman, and it had his name on it.

  Surviving Is Fun Until . . .

  * * *

  After two hours of boredom, Newton’s stomach began to rumble: He’d had overcooked porridge in the mess at eight that morning, and it was now sometime after two. He decided to go deeper into the forest. He’d find water, build his shelter, then hunt food. In the shadows of the pine trees, he thought he heard a twig snap. A fellow student? Or, worse, a coyote or bobcat? They wouldn’t be a bother for him, but they’d probably like a taste of Joséphine. He resolved to keep a close eye on her.

  She stopped to smell a pinecone, then a mushroom. “Reliving truffle-hunting season?” he asked. She nodded quite deliberately. He did a double take, but she was back to sniffing at the ground. You’re hallucinating, Newton. You haven’t had enough to eat.

  After another hour of climbing and sweating, his pack felt as if it were full of stones. He checked his sgian dubh to be sure it was still in its sheath, the familiar handle reassuring him. “Lads and lassies, check your knife every second step,” Mr. MacBain had drilled into them. “It should become a natural reflex!” Newton chastised himself for not checking it often enough.

  Where the pine trees gave way to a few poplars, he came across a small clearing. He knew the inside of the poplar bark was edible and could be made into a tea. Newton set his pack down next to a tree and where the grass was quite green. There was no obvious source of water.

  He swallowed. His tongue was dry. He didn’t remember seeing any streams, and he wasn’t sure if he had the energy to go hunting. He knew it took three days for a human being to die of dehydration.

  Newton spotted a goldfinch. In
class he’d learned that if it flew away straight and low, it was heading for water, though it only drank at dusk and dawn, so it’d be a while. He squinted up at the sun. Fourish or so.

  He looked at Joséphine. Joséphine looked at him. “Would you find me some water, please?” he asked. She rolled her eyes, got to her haunches and sniffed along the ground and across the clearing. He followed her.

  They walked for three or four minutes before she stopped in front of a creek, its source somewhere above them, in the hills. He rubbed her back. “You’re a lifesaving pig.”

  The water tasted like heaven. He and Joséphine drank and drank. He filled his canteen.

  As he wiped the water from his chin, an unsettling thought came to Newton: I could have done this on my own. If only I’d had a bit more patience.

  He shook his head. It wasn’t really cheating to use her, he decided. She’s just another tool in my toolbox.

  He sat back on his haunches. Okay, time to locate me some calories. Since normal activities burn a hundred fifteen calories an hour, I need two thousand seven hundred and sixty calories to keep my motor running. Maybe a couple thousand more to replace the energy I used getting here. So at least four thousand in total.

  He turned on his survival eyes, and next to an anthill he found several wild onions. He dug them out of the soft soil and ate them quickly. They were one-twelfth the size of normal onions, tasted a little sweet but still stung his eyes as he peeled them. He dug around for more food, then wrote it all down in his field journal.