The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 3

by Roy MacGregor

  The waters had been calm when Nish went back to sit with the guide. Once, Travis thought he had seen Nish unbuckle his safety harness while the real guide–“Call me Hughie”–pointed out the sights along the river. Travis hadn’t worried about Nish’s harness until, around the next bend in the river, his ears were filled with a frightening roar, and the water, now rushing, loomed white and foaming ahead of them.

  It hadn’t seemed possible to Travis that a rubber raft could chance such a run. What if it was punctured on the rocks? But the guide had sent them straight into the highest boils of the current, and the huge raft had folded and sprung and tossed several of them out of their seats as it slid and jumped and smashed through the water. They turned abruptly at the bottom and rammed head-on into a rooster tail of rolling water, the rush now flinging them backwards as if shot from a catapult.

  Nish had held on fine through all that–despite his undone safety harness.

  Down the river they went, the water roaring and thundering between tight rocks as the runs grew more and more intense. But always the big raft came through, the Screech Owls screaming happily and catching their breath each time they made it down a fast run and shot out the other side into calmer, deeper waters.

  But this last time had been too much. The big raft slid into the channel, snaking over the rises, and up ahead Nish saw Lars Johanssen, Wilson Kelly, and Sarah Cuthbertson being bounced right out of their seats. But they had their hands looped carefully around the rope, as instructed, and fortunately they came right back down.

  Travis had also left his seat, the quick feeling of weightlessness both exhilarating and alarming. He held tight and bounced back down, hard, and was instantly into the next rise.

  That was when he heard his great friend’s famous last words–“I’M GONNA HURL!”–and the next moment he was watching, helpless, as Nish slipped into that horrifying watery grave.

  Nish, lost overboard.

  Drowned.

  His body never to be recovered.

  KA-WA-BUN-GA!”

  Travis spun so fast in his seat he almost turned right around. But then he realized the raft was also turning. They’d reached the bottom of the run. The water was slowing, circling back in small eddies and swirls. Hughie, laughing and digging in hard with his steering paddles to follow the flow, was pointing back up the water.

  “KA-WA-BUN-GA!”

  It was Nish! He was lying flat on his back as if the chute were a La-Z-Boy and he was casually watching television, not magically returning from the dead. His chubby hands were folded behind his head for a pillow, and the life jacket had him riding high as a cork as he came down, feet first, and spun into the small whirlpool at the bottom before bumping gently into the raft filled with astonished, delighted Screech Owls.

  “Can we do that again?” he shouted to the guide.

  Hughie laughed so hard Travis thought he might fall in too.

  “Get in here!” Hughie said, and with some difficulty hauled Nish up over the side.

  “CHUCK HIM BACK IN!” a loud voice shouted from the front of the raft. “WHALES ARE OUT OF SEASON!”

  It was Sam. The Screech Owls–with one exception–roared with laughter. Nish rolled on his side and spat a mouthful of river water in Sam’s direction. Travis caught sight of his friend’s face. It was burning so bright it almost turned the water on his cheeks to steam.

  Hughie, still laughing, helped Nish back into his seat and, this time, tied him to the raft. They continued downriver, flowing with the current and shooting fast through the narrows. Several times riders flew into the air and bounced on the thick sides of the raft, but they all held tight to the ropes and, when necessary, to each other. Despite Nish’s recommendation, no one wanted to shoot a rapids without the raft under them.

  It was a wonderful way to spend a day. The river seemed designed for rafting, with long, luxurious drifts between the white-water chutes and, around noon, a rocky river island suddenly looming before them with a calm, sheltered landing area downriver and a large, flat, rocky surface for lunch by the shore.

  Hughie broke out two large coolers that had been secured by Velcro straps at the centre of the raft. Several Owls helped him haul them over to a flat rock where several wooden blocks were scattered around a black and damp-looking fire pit. The thick cedar blocks made perfect stools, and several of the Owls shed their helmets and life jackets and sat down to watch the guide work.

  Inside one cooler was paper and dry wood, pots and pans and cooking oil, and tin cups and paper plates and towels. Inside the other was food: hot dogs and buns, boxes of Kraft Dinner, Kool-Aid, tins of cookies, and several thick bundles wrapped in tinfoil which, when carefully folded back by the guide, revealed the pink flesh of lake trout. “Caught ’em myself,” Hughie bragged.

  He began to set the fire, carefully crumpling up the paper, then building a thatch of thinly sliced kindling on top before striking a match. The fire caught quickly and he began feeding it, first with the dry dead branches of a nearby spruce, then with split birch that had been piled there earlier, presumably by the rafting company.

  “Go explore the island while I get things ready,” Hughie suggested. “Just make sure you have your life jackets on.”

  The Screech Owls began walking about the small island. It was hot in the sun with the wetsuits and bulky jackets on, and Travis could feel his skin prickling with sweat. If he felt uncomfortable, he thought, how must Nish feel?

  But if Nish was bothered by the heat, he didn’t show it. He was up ahead and in full voice, surrounded by his friends on the team–Wilson, Andy, Lars, Fahd Noorizadeh, Derek Dillinger, Gordie Griffth, Jeremy Weathers, and Jesse Highboy. Slightly ahead of them, Sarah was walking with Sam, Liz Moscovitz, and Jenny Staples. Travis could see Sam whispering and the other girls giggling.

  “I coulda died back there,” Nish was saying just a bit too loudly.

  “I thought you were dead,” said Fahd.

  “Just lucky for them it was me who flew off,” Nish boasted. “Good thing for them I’m such a strong swimmer.”

  Sarah couldn’t resist. She turned, her face questioning: “You looked like you were ‘floating,’ not swimming.”

  Nish dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “I had to get clear of the bottom first. You wouldn’t believe what it’s like down there. Just look at how hard that water’s going”–he pointed to the wildest section of the river as it pounded and churned and roared through the narrow stretch between island and shore–“Nobody’d survive that if they weren’t a strong swimmer like me.”

  “I wouldn’t,” agreed Fahd.

  Travis wasn’t so sure. It seemed to him that the wetsuit and life jacket may have done all the work, that Nish was merely along for the ride from the moment he splashed in. But he supposed if Nish wanted to make himself out to be a hero, he’d let him. After all, it had happened a million times before.

  “HEY — HUGHIE!”

  It was Sam’s big voice again, calling over the roar of the river. The guide stepped back from his blazing campfire and looked over to where Sam and most of the other Owls were standing.

  They were right below the high bluff that formed the upstream end of the island. It was like a miniature mountain, with a small pine tree hanging on valiantly to the side.

  “OKAY IF WE CLIMB UP?”

  “I’ll have to come up with you!” he called. He threw more wood on the fire. It would be a while before there were coals enough for cooking.

  Sam was already scrambling up. There seemed to be a series of hand-and foot-holds all the way to the top, and her hands and feet moved deftly from grip to grip. She was halfway up by the time the guide made it over to them.

  “Slow down up there!” Hughie called after her. But he didn’t seem angry. He took a run and leaped to the first grip himself, moving up surely and quickly, as if he knew the face of the bluff by heart. Dmitri Yakushev, Sarah, Simon Milliken, and Jesse were right behind him.

  “Let’s go!” Travis sai
d to Nish.

  “Ah, who wants to do something stupid like that?” Nish said.

  But Travis wasn’t listening. He was hurrying to join the scramble up to the top. The view from up there would be fantastic. With the thick mist rising off the river as it roared by on both sides of the island, the top was barely visible. Once up there, it would probably feel as if they were floating on a cloud.

  Travis joined in with Andy and Jenny and Willie Granger, who were about to start climbing.

  Andy looked at Travis, puzzled. “Isn’t Nish coming?”

  “Sure,” Travis said as he turned–only to realize Nish hadn’t come with him.

  Of course–Nish was terrified of heights!

  “What’s wrong with him?” demanded Andy.

  Andy hadn’t been with them at Lake Placid, when Nish had freaked out on the drive up White Mountain. He’d panicked again at the CN Tower in Toronto, but Andy was new to the team then and probably hadn’t noticed. The truth was that Nish–big brave Nish–had one remarkable weak spot: he could not bear heights.

  “C’mon, Nish!” Travis shouted encouragingly. “It’s not so high.”

  Too many of the Owls were watching for Nish to ignore the challenge. He swaggered over, but Travis noticed that Nish’s high colour from his fall overboard had vanished. He was growing whiter by the moment–almost as if the blood were draining straight out the bottom of his wetsuit.

  “Get going, then,” Nish ordered. “I’m right behind you.”

  The others scrambled up with Travis at the rear. It was hard work, but relatively easy climbing. The route had been well established. Travis reached the first ledge and paused to catch his breath. He looked back. Nish, barely two metres off the ground, was staring up helplessly, his face pale and frightened. He looked on the verge of tears and was breathing heavily.

  Travis gave his friend an easy way out. “You’re probably beat from the spill,” he said.

  Nish nodded gratefully. “Yeah, I think you’re right. I’ll maybe just hang back a minute and catch my breath.”

  “See you up there,” Travis said, knowing he wouldn’t.

  Travis hurried to catch up. He soon settled into a rhythm, finding a handgrip whenever needed, a foot-hold at just the right distance, roots and rock edges and branches perfectly placed for reaching out to and pulling yourself up. It was fun, and he moved quickly.

  When Travis looked over the top of the rock face, he saw the Owls already there, gathered around Hughie. He was pointing out the far Gatineau Hills.

  It was a beautiful place to stand. The rocks were stark and wet with the mist that rose like steam all about them. It seemed they were in a dream world, walking among the clouds, able to fly if they wished.

  “Anybody ever fall off?” Sam was asking, her green eyes flashing with excitement. Now that they were in the sun, her red hair sparkled wildly with the mist settling on it from below.

  “You’d die,” pronounced Fahd with his usual air of disaster.

  “Nah,” laughed Hughie. “The water’s forty feet deep on this side. You couldn’t touch bottom if you tried; you’d be swept away downstream before you’d gone three metres deep.”

  “Anybody ever jump?” Sam asked.

  “You nuts?” Fahd said.

  “Sometimes,” said Hughie. “There’s a few guides who’ll do it. We once had a television crew here filming it for Extreme Sports.”

  “Did you jump?” asked Jesse.

  “I’m not that crazy,” laughed Hughie.

  “Well,” said Sam, “I am!”

  And with that she turned and raced for the edge, springing once on both feet high out over the gorge then tucking her legs into her body in a full somersault.

  “Hey!” shouted the guide.

  They all raced towards the empty space where a half-second earlier Sam had stood. Travis reached the edge just in time to see her disappear down through the mist and into the churning, boiling river.

  “SHE’LL DROWN!” screeched Jenny.

  “She can’t,” said Hughie, gathering himself. “She’s fully outfitted. She’ll be all right.”

  The Screech Owls stood leaning over the edge, all of them staring into the hump of rolling water where Sam had disappeared.

  “She won’t come up there,” said the guide. “Watch for her downstream.”

  The Screech Owls stared down towards the calmer water where they’d drawn the raft up onto the rocks.

  They saw Nish first. He was standing alone down by the raft, looking completely lost, trying to stay out of sight of the others.

  And now they were all staring at him.

  “What’s Nish doing there?” Fahd asked, although it was all too obvious.

  “There she comes!” called Hughie, pointing.

  They followed his finger. Travis noticed the red crash helmet first, then the bright yellow life jacket. Then the fist, pumping the air as if she’d just scored the winning goal in the Little Stanley Cup.

  “KA-WA-BUN-GA!”

  Nish’s call, but clearly not his voice.

  It was Sam, pumping her fist and hollering at Nish.

  “KA-WA-BUN-GA! CHICKEN BOY!”

  Sam was swimming, strong and easily, towards the shallows where the raft was docked. She kept pumping her fist.

  “KA-WA-BUN-GA!”

  Travis could see Nish look up at them, his face filled with the painful knowledge that he had just been humiliated. Now they all knew he had chickened out of the climb. And now they all knew there had been nothing particularly brave or talented about his overboard ride down the river.

  Nish had just been out-Nished by Sam.

  He was a long way away, and there was heavy mist in the air, but Travis didn’t need to see Nish’s face clearly to be able to read it.

  Total fury.

  I’ll get her back–don’t you worry.”

  Nish might have been talking to himself. He was flat on his back, wearing only his boxer shorts, his sleeping bag kicked off to the side and his pillow covered with candy wrappers: Tootsie Roll, Mars Bar, Mr. Big, Milky Way. In Nish’s opinion, a four-course meal.

  The boys had woken early. There was so much going on during the Little Stanley Cup, it seemed there was no time left for sleeping. They’d been up until midnight watching the Canada Day fireworks on Parliament Hill–the greatest display of brilliant colour and raw noise that Travis had ever experienced–and this morning they had been roused at 7:30 to get ready for their first practice. It was, for the Screech Owls, even better than a game, for they were going to skate on the Corel Centre ice and use the same dressing room as the Ottawa Senators.

  Travis lay in the big, army-style tent, half-listening to Nish ramble on about getting his revenge on Sam, and half-watching the sunlight play over the tent. The light seemed to pour through a thousand pinpricks in the canvas–yet it had rained during the night and they’d remained warm and dry.

  “But how?” Andy finally asked Nish.

  Travis winced. The worst mistake you could make with Nish was to lead him on. The others in the tent–Fahd, Jesse, Lars, and Dmitri–knew it too, but Andy had been unable to resist.

  “I’m not sure yet,” Nish answered, then giggled softly to himself. “But it’ll be good, real good, I promise you that.”

  Travis closed his eyes, not even daring to imagine what schemes were racing through his best friend’s twisted little brain.

  The sun was now so strong on the tent, it seemed Travis’s eyelids had been spray-painted red from the inside.

  It was already getting too hot–he could hardly wait to hit the ice.

  Travis could never quite understand what Muck had against summer hockey. Muck always said summer was for other sports–baseball to improve your eye-hand co-ordination, soccer to help your footwork and passing, biking for conditioning–and claimed that the reason so many kids dropped out of hockey in their teenage years was that they were sick and tired of playing the game twelve months of the year. Perhaps Travis would one day agr
ee with his coach, but not now.

  He loved the way everything about summer hockey was backwards. In winter you came in to the warmth and shed bulky outdoor clothes; in summer you came in to the cool and put on bulky equipment. Travis liked the dressing up instead of dressing down. He liked that first step onto a fresh ice surface when he could kick once and just glide freely. He often thought that the first turn around the rink in summer must be as close as a kid can come to feeling like an astronaut stepping outside the spaceship: so heavily insulated, head helmeted, gravity and friction defied, his body drifting and soaring with the slightest effort.

  Even better, the Owls were in a rink where NHL players had performed. Here, on this very ice surface, was where Alexei Yashin and Daniel Alfredsson and Marian Hossa had starred for the Senators. Here was where Jaromir Jagr had scored, where Patrick Roy and Dominik Hasek had kicked out the shots. And here, he suddenly remembered, was where Wayne Gretzky had played his final game ever in Canada. Because of that, it was a rink that belonged to Canadian history.

  Mr. Dillinger was doing the best he could. He set out pylons and dumped a bucket of pucks, and he tried to talk like Muck and outline plays like Ty, but it wasn’t the same. Poor Mr. Dillinger, sweat beading on his bald head, could barely skate. He needed his stick on the ice for support, and when he tried to fire a puck into a corner so the power play could work on their cycling, he fell over onto one knee.