Opalescence

by Ron Rayborne

  “We have to find the pack,” he told her, slapping his back to help her understand. Little turned her head toward the river, then back at him. Maybe she gets it, he hoped. Even though he wasn’t going to eat raw meat, he was still hungry and looked around for something else. Then he noticed that the trees and bushes around them were alive with berries of all kinds, singly and in bunches. He knew he was taking a chance, but decided to rate their edibility based on taste. Some he liked, others he rejected. One he quickly spit out was bitter, a small, white berry that would later be called Creeping Snowberry. He also refused another that was indeed edible, it just wasn’t sweet: Toyon.

  On the other hand, he found many to his liking. Without knowing exactly what he was eating, Tom enjoyed the delights of thimbleberry, serviceberry, chokecherry and golden currant. Grapes grew high up in the trees and down below. He had to reach up to get any though, since, like the other fruits, the easiest ones to reach had already been taken. Ah! The reason for this path, Tom discerned.

  Then, spying a petite, red berry, Tom did a double take. Tiny, seeds on the outside, triangular-shaped. Could it be? Tom picked a few and popped them into his mouth. A rush of familiar taste filled his palate and he hooted. Strawberry!

  Farther down the path, he saw a viney type plant with darker colored, bulbous berries. They looked familiar, something from his childhood, perhaps. The leaves, though, gave him great pause. Grouped in three, they looked very much like poison oak and he certainly did not want to mess with that again. Nevertheless, something was different, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Where was the P.I. when he needed it? Like poison oak, this was a vine with long, thin branches. Gingerly, he took hold of a branchlet to have a closer look and immediately let go. Tiny thorns hurt his fingers, some embedding themselves in his skin. He pulled them out one by one while studying the plant once more, not wanting to give up on so tasty looking a fruit. Tom tried to remember what he’d read about poison oak. He didn’t recollect anything about big black berries or thorns.

  Feeling that he was taking a stupid risk, Tom decided to give one a taste, picked, and bit ever so tenderly into it, ready to spew every atom of it out at the slightest question. Instead, the berry fairly popped in his mouth, and purple juice, the very definition of sweetness, flooded his tongue. He knew what it was! Blackberry, succulent, flavorful blackberry! When he was a child of ten, when every good thing was disappearing, including his father who’d died the year before, his mother had spent a small fortune to buy them some blackberries. Donning her old apron, she whipped up some cake, placing the berries and cream on top. Now he remembered the two of them sitting at the little table in their kitchen. Walls, yellow with age, or was it the lighting, soft, gentle lighting, like her. They had two baskets of berries, one for the cake and an extra. Together they ate every last one. It was one of his happiest memories. The next year mom died. Died of a broken heart, his aunt had told him.

  “I love you, Mom,” Tom said.

  Mist swirled. Wiping his eyes, Tom turned back to the task at hand. He thought about how far they’d traveled, but knew that he could find the area where they’d went in the water. Best to start at the beginning. Little had already devoured her breakfast and was sitting next to the path keeping an eye on her human. He put on his shoes, but left the rest of his clothes hanging; no sense in getting them wet again. Then together they walked back, while he continued to feast on berries. Delicious food free for the taking. What an odd, alien concept, he pondered, not for the first time since arriving here. Free food. Free anything.

  As they slogged, he kept a look out along the embankments for his pack, or anything from it, shaking his head at the seeming impossibility of the undertaking. Every sweet he’d savored this morning had been doused in a bitter seasoning of doubt and dread.

  It was impossible to see much of the embankment on either side, for thick growth obscured his view. The clamor of water increased as they grew closer to the falls. Like yesterday, it was almost deafening. Approaching the place where they went over, Tom looked back to find Little falling behind. He understood and would not force her to come. She barked a warning at him, but he barely heard. Mist swirled around him, tiny droplets that wet his skin. His hair blew out behind. Cautiously, Tom climbed a dripping boulder and stood looking out, yet with all the mist and roiling water it was hard to see. Even if it was here he might never notice it. He swallowed hard.

  He could not go into the water to find it. Way too dangerous. Besides that, Little might jump in after him. All he could do was walk back down the path as far as he could, and in the areas where shrubbery blocked his sight, push through it to have a better look.

  They set out again, Tom keen to spot anything unusual, stopping long enough to get dressed. An hour later, after having gone a long ways, they were almost out of the canyon, yet, no sign of the pack. Tom was very discouraged. But he was not going to leave without it. They’d have to go back and look again. Then a thought occurred to him: what if he could find something of relatively equal weight and buoyancy, something he could toss in the water about where he lost the pack and then follow to see where it eventually landed? It might work — or it might lead him on another wild goose chase. On the other hand, from where he stood, his options were rather limited. He’d give it a try. Now, what to use? The first requirement, of course, was that it float. He grimaced. What could he find that would float? And what if his pack didn’t float? What if it just sank? He decided not to think about that.

  Back up the canyon they trekked, Little faithfully following, but possibly wondering what silly human game this was. Back and forth. Tom figured that it would be about noon by the time they’d backtracked to the falls. He studied every opening along the stream, even climbing trees, rocks and the hillside when he could. Still no luck.

  In due course, they were almost there. He’d been thinking what to use that could float and had hit on an idea. Perhaps a couple dozen yards from the cascade, he’d seen a termite-ridden chunk of log that had broken off the main trunk of an old dead tree when it finally fell years ago. He bet that would float. Walking to it now, he surveyed it critically, then lifted. Thanks to termite action, its original mass, and thus weight, was greatly reduced, its load felt similar to the pack’s. Sharp pieces were on the ends, however, edges that could catch on something and stop its progress down river. He’d have to break those off. As much as possible, this piece of trunk had to model his pack.

  Tom found a blunt, palm-sized rock, and began to work on the log. Breaking off the protruding parts was not as hard as he’d thought it would be. The termites, though, were not amused and swarmed out. Hundreds teemed over the wood, and then onto the ground in an effort to find this haughty vandal. Any other time, the vandal would have been an insectivore, a bear perhaps, who would have greedily lapped up the moving mounds of protein. Now, however, their assailant, after shaking off the few that made it to his arms, merely kicked the log away from them and continued chipping. They’d soon find another piece of wood.

  Nevertheless, Tom felt a twinge of conscience at his casual, all-too-human usurping of the termite’s home. His calloused dismissal of their rights.

  In ten minute’s time, the big pieces were gone and he set to working on the little ones. When he thought he’d cleaned it up enough, Tom walked back to the mad river to consider his next move. He realized that trying to get the large chunk onto the boulder was unlikely. Even though the rocks that went across were roughly lined up, the first one on this side was back from the bank a little too far to climb with something in his hands. Not only that, but with the constant slap of water against its north face it was wet and slick. Yet, looking down the river from the side and noting that the water swirled away here toward the middle, he thought that if he tossed it in it should soon find the same course. But he’d only have one chance at it.

  Tom walked back to the log piece, picked it up and hoisted to his right shoulder, again feeling its heft, then turned back to the river. There he
set it down, then peered at Little who was lying comfortably on her side, watching him. She came awake at his word.

  “Okay girl, I’m going to put this in the water, then we are going to follow it. Be ready to move.” Little sat up.

  Tom bent down and heaved the log up again, then maneuvered close to the edge as he dared. Water pelted his legs. Eyeing his target, he took a breath, then tossed. The log splashed in, then went down. “Crap!” Tom said. Then it was up again, farther down the river, and moving fast.

  “YI!” Tom cried out. He ran past Little and down the trail, keeping an eye best he could on the moving wood. In a flash, Little was romping past him, tail up, barking her unique Aelurodon bark. It was hard to keep the wood in sight as it was frequently hidden by the waves, bright with solar reflection, and he thought he’d lost it a few times. He decided, though, to keep himself jogging at the same pace as the log, and that paid off. Passing a long patch of tall cattails which obstructed his view of the river, he was delighted to see that the log was exactly opposite him and still bobbing along with the current. There were, of course, objects like fallen branches and boulders in the river and he worried that it would catch on one of those. But approaching them, the log would then be zipped around their sides before making contact.

  This went on for, what seemed to Tom, a long time, and he thought that they must have traveled the better part of a mile. Could it have gone this far? Now he wondered if one of the straps from his pack might have snared on something and be behind him. A small antelope with crazy horns appeared on the trail before them as they careened around a corner and Little lit out after it. Tom knew that it would be much too fast for her to catch, so he didn’t bother calling her back.

  After what seemed a very long time indeed, Tom was getting winded and breathing hard. Maybe he made the log so water worthy that it would float all the way to the sea! It seemed that nothing could stop it. Little was again at his side and running parallel. They startled a flock of quail, which startled him in return, bursting from their secret place and into the air. The river was slowing and widening. It began to describe a long curve to the right, then left. They were nearing the exit. Grassland was visible beyond the high canopy of trees. Maybe another quarter-mile. By now, Tom was convinced that they’d passed the pack up. They’d have to turn back and try yet again. It looked like he’d have to actually travel down the river itself somehow. He shook his head at that, wondering how he’d do it.

  Another mass of growth to block his view. They trotted past and as usual Tom glanced to his side to make sure he was on track. The log did not reappear this time. Tom did a double-take. He looked downriver, but didn’t see it. Where is it? Did it finally sink? He jotted to the edge for a look back upriver, straining to find the wood, slowly casting his gaze inch by inch. The river having slackened at this point, vegetal growth was free to venture farther from the bank-side and in toward the middle. It was hard to see around.

  Though still flowing with some strength, the river had lost much of it with its expansion. Tom thought that he could slog up his side of it if he held onto the various branches and reeds, then he could try to find out what happened to the log. To be sure, there was a lot of debris here that he could hold onto, a variety of detritus that, having fallen into the current, had finally found a resting place at this wide bend in the waterway.

  “Wait here!” Tom commanded Little. She sat and looked at him sternly. “I’ll be back in a minute. Promise.” Then, turning, he waded into the river. It pushed at him as he made his way forward along the side. Soon he was waist-high, then it was just below his chest. He held onto each of the branches firmly as he pulled himself along. One dislodged and almost dislodged him. He grasped another and chose with more care. Little barked.

  Slowly, handhold by handhold, Tom made his way. He was now in water deeper than he was tall. Little barked again. She could not see him and that worried her. Tom yelled reassurances. After five slow minutes, he came to a little nook, a slight clearing in the flotsam. And there, there was the log bobbing in and out. At last it was at rest.

  “Ha!” Tom said triumphantly, “Found you!” he smiled. A small victory. “Guess I did a pretty good job,” he said. Then, floating it out with one hand while still holding onto something with the other, he sent it downriver again, watching as it disappeared from sight. Tom sighed with resignation. Once more upriver.

  Something blue, unnaturally blue, caught his eye. It was just past the open midpoint in the river, lodged in some reeds. He looked at it as it too bobbed in the ceaseless flow. Seconds passed, then his eyes gradually widened and a huge smile spread across his face. My backpack!!!

  Tom let out a whoop that resounded under the riparian canopy. Whooped once more. Little bayed, ran to the other side of the cattails, then jumped in after her human.

  If ever he’d had a happy moment, this was it! The pack floated half out of the water, one strap snagged by a submerged branch. Carefully, holding onto the far end of that branch, Tom drew himself across. The current increased in force the closer he came to the middle, but keeping himself on the upstream side of the branch, there was no danger of being swept downriver. When he reached the pack, he removed it, and thanked whatever gods had occasioned such a miracle. Loath to lose it again, he slung it over one, then switching hands, the other shoulder. He had his pack back again!

  As he hauled himself across, Little was just coming around to meet him, whining and dog-paddling. Tom met her with a kiss to her head.

  “Look what I found!” he exclaimed jubilantly. Then he thought that he should get them out of the river. “Okay, let’s go,” he said. Going downriver was much easier than up, and he only needed to hold onto the wedged debris to keep from being pushed into the middle, though, at this point, he didn’t think the river was nearly the threat it was before. In a short minute he was bank-side, then hauled himself out. Little also climbed out and promptly shook herself free of the water, sending droplets flying every which way. Again, Tom hooted and did a little jig. Little yelped in joy and jumped on her human, nearly knocking him back in. Tom laughed.

  Okay let’s see how everything is. There was one item, however, only one, that he was truly concerned about. The PinPointer. Sitting, Tom carefully unzipped the pack, then began to withdraw the enclosed objects one-by-one, setting them on the ground beside him, then around him. The PinPointer he’d put in a special cushioned inner pouch. Now he opened that pouch gently with his thumb and index finger. There it was. Sleek, wet, but, he hoped, undamaged. Removing it, he set the pack on the ground and opened the P.P. Instantly the display came alive. It worked! Yet another whoop. Tom clicked on the map, and seconds later, there was the red blip, pulsing as usual. But no green blip. Tom swallowed. He remembered that the last time he’d turned it on Julie hadn’t register then either.

  “Come on! Come on!” he implored. “Where are you!” Still, only red showed. “Shit, COME ON!” Tom yelled. He shook off a rising fear that maybe she really was gone, killed by Jackson. His hands began to tremble. Then he thought that maybe she’d lost or broken her PinPointer. In that case, he’d still never find her. Or could it be that, he, still being part way in the canyon, that, well, maybe her signal simply could not reach him? Maybe that was it, he reasoned, though he knew the illogic of it. If he could pick up Jaqzen, he ought to be able to pick up Julie. Or maybe she was in a temporary location that blocked her signal. He’d try again when he was out of the canyon.

  Grimly, Tom began to close the P.P. when he heard another blip, this one a slightly different aural hue than the other. He raised the lid again and looked. The green light. Julie! She’s still alive! Again, Tom shouted for joy. His anxiety lifted, his life restored.

  Everything he had been through, everything, the worry, the fear, the pain, was worth this moment.

  It was truly a great day.

  Chapter 23

  At the mouth of the canyon where the tree line ended, Tom decided to rest. Even though he’d slept the night
before, still, he felt bone tired. All the activity of the past several days had left him feeling wiped out. He badly needed a good rejuvenating sleep.

  He couldn’t have picked a lovelier place. From this point out was an undulating plain of tallgrass, only just yellowing as the year advanced. It was hot out there, but under the high riparian canopy, the river flowing nearby, the weather was extremely pleasant.

  Places like this wouldn’t last long in modern times, he knew. First they’d be claimed by someone and fenced off. “Private Property” and “No Trespassing” signs would be strategically positioned around the periphery, with violators to be prosecuted by law. Later, when the press of humanity increased and all the good available land confiscated, their value would shoot up. At that point, the temptation to sell would be too great. Most of the real estate would then be parceled out in 40 acre increments and streets laid down. Later still, these would be further subdivided into one acre fractions. Cookie cutter houses would be wedged in, each fenced off from the others. Additional blocks of land within would be sold to commercial interests, and up would go shopping centers and parking lots, auto repair yards and schools, city government buildings and landfills.

  As the population increased, the pressure to capitalize would lead to a further reduction in lot sizes to half and even a tenth acre. Towns would become cities. Apartments followed, then high-rises, joined by monster freeways jammed with legions of cars. As the floors ran up, the whole ran down. There’d be seedy precincts and pot holes in the streets. Empty, litter-filled lots behind eight foot high chain link, and graffiti defaced billboards. Smelly gas stations and liquor stores on every corner. There’d be stories of secret dumping of toxic wastes in the creeks, the ones which hadn’t already been diverted to ag land or paved over. In the more “rural” areas, giant lots crammed with thousands of cattle, pigs and chickens living in miserable conditions would be ignored by a meat-eating commons. Technology outpacing wisdom, all of this would coincide with a general drop in the public morale and a rise in disrespect. Yet, still the population surged.