Eviskar Island

by Warren Dalzell

  Jocelyn thanked her and rushed to catch up with Spencer and Jack who had nearly disappeared into the morning mist.

  * * *

  A steep but manageable downslope greeted the three students as they departed their cliff side encampment. The terrain to the east, the direction in which they had intended to go, was strewn with large boulders, forcing them to go, for the time being, along a route to the southwest. Visibility was poor. Light mist at higher elevations gradually gave way to dense fog as they moved downhill. Water from numerous seeps and rivulets flowed from the high peaks that formed the rim of the volcano, sourced by extensive snow melt. As they dropped in elevation, these trickles merged into a single stream that they followed, enjoying the sound it made as it gurgled and wound its way down through the rocks. Within half a mile from where they’d spent the night, barely 400 feet lower in elevation, many of the rocks bore a covering of lichen and moss, and further on, below an impressive waterfall, the banks of the stream were choked with small ferns.

  “These aren’t the kind of plants one expects to find in the arctic,” Jocelyn remarked. She bent down to examine the first flora they’d seen since Olafsvik. “I just spent half a semester in biology identifying plants,” she added absent mindedly as she carefully counted the delicate leafy branches on a stem. “My teacher is a botanist and has a real hard-on for keying stuff like this.” She stood and shook her head. “There appear to be at least three distinct varieties here, but none of them match anything we studied in class.” Taking her cell phone from her pack, she snapped a quick photo.

  Spencer shed his pack and took off the light jacket he’d worn since he’d first set foot on the island. He tied it around his waist and proceeded to fill his canteen from the clear stream that fed the deep pool at his feet. “I think these plants have been here for a while. They dint’ just start growin’ two months ago when winter ended. It’s incredible. I’m sweatin’ from the heat ‘an we’re only a little ways from snow ‘an ice up on the mountains.”

  “Spencer’s right,” said Jocelyn. “It’s got to be seventy degrees here, and muggy,” she sloughed out of her coat as well, “and it’s still early in the morning. I know of places like this where the climate changes rapidly with altitude. My family took a vacation to Colorado two years ago. We were in Colorado Springs sometime in June and it was hotter than blazes, almost ninety. Anyway, my dad wanted to climb Pike’s Peak, so he and I left my mother and brother at the hotel and drove to one of the trailheads. We never made it to the top. A couple thousand feet from the summit it started raining and within minutes it had turned to snow. I was in a T-shirt and almost froze.

  “But the elevation change on that trip was maybe four or five thousand feet. This is weird; Marcie and Debbie can’t be more than a thousand feet above us—probably less. And it was really cold on the beach, and that’s lower than we are now. Something more is going on here.”

  Jack’s attention was split between what the others were saying and what was happening above them. He had his arm extended once again, fist in the air, alternately pointing it towards the Sun and glancing at his watch.

  Spencer was intrigued, “Yo, Jack, what are you doin’ now?”

  “Trying to determine where we’re going. I don’t want to alarm you guys,” he smiled, “but can you tell where we are?”

  Spencer looked around and realized what Jack was saying. They were surrounded by fog. The mountains had completely disappeared from view; none of the landmarks they’d familiarized themselves with were accessible now. Mild panic came over Spencer as the fact dawned on him that he had lost his sense of direction; he was completely lost. If necessity compelled him to return to the beach where they’d landed he wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to get there. Jocelyn momentarily stopped thinking about climate and listened to what Jack was saying.

  “Last night I used the angle between the Sun and the point where it would set to determine time—the number of hours until ‘sunset.’ Now I’m using the same technique in reverse, I’m determining azimuth, you know, direction, from the time of day. We don’t have a compass with us and because of the fog we can’t use terrestrial landmarks to great effect. Like blue water sailors in the days before LORAN and GPS, all we have to navigate by are celestial objects, basically the Sun, Moon, and stars.”

  The only object available at the moment was, of course, the Sun. Because of the dense cloud layer overhead, Jack could look directly at it without hurting his eyes. It was a nearly perfectly round, glowing orb, hanging over them like a divine beacon, offering to guide them through the unknown.

  “Knowing what time it is is really the key. Our local time is almost exactly one hour earlier than Greenwich Time and I’ve set my watch accordingly. I know that at local noon the Sun will be due south, and I know from my watch how many hours we have until noon. That number of hours, times fifteen, is the number of degrees, along the Sun’s path of travel, that the Sun needs to move until it is south of us. I’m using my extended fist, my handy built-in angle measuring device, to find the south point. Once we know that, we can face in any direction, estimate the number of horizontal degrees from south, and that’s our compass bearing.”

  His companions were impressed. “So, fearless leader, which way do we go?” asked Jocelyn.

  He pointed slightly to the left of the Sun. “That’s where we want to go, but the landscape is too rugged.” He shrugged, “I say we follow this stream until we find a way to circle back to the east. If we don’t catch a break soon, we’ll have no choice but to turn back. It will also mean we’ll have to hoist Debbie up that cliff to get back to the dig,” he added ominously.

  The party trudged on. Small streams continuously joined the one they were following until it justifiably could be called a river. They soon came to a deep gorge where the water became a torrent of foam and spray, crashing against sheer cliffs on either side. Forced to backtrack, they searched for a crossing to the other side. Next to a large boulder, where the stream abruptly altered course, they came to a suitable spot; a log jam, of sorts, had formed a bridge. Bunches of something resembling scaly bamboo had been uprooted and swept downstream to form a dam.

  Once they were on the far side, they stopped to drink and to refill their water bottles. The combination of heat and humidity was taking its toll. All three were perspiring freely; hydration had become a central issue.

  Jocelyn again took a few moments to survey the strange plants they’d encountered. “These small trees, or whatever they are, don’t look like anything I’ve ever seen, not even in books. Look at this,” she pulled a log from the jumble of sticks at the water’s edge, and held it up for inspection. “It’s got a bark layer that overlays dense wood, but the interior is pithy, almost hollow. And see these segments as you move along the trunk? At every node there are these skinny leaves, and this bushy part on top has some sort of seed cone. It’s just…bizzaro.”

  “Didn’t you say it’s some type of bamboo?” Jack asked.

  “Parts of it kinda look like bamboo, but that’s deceiving; I don’t think they’re related at all. If I had to guess, I’d say—now don’t laugh—it may be some sort of strange conifer. Who knows?”

  Spencer dipped his bandana in the stream and wrapped it, soaking wet, around his head before replacing his Yankee’s cap. The others took the hint and took similar measures to stay cool. Jack jokingly challenged his colleagues to a wet T-shirt contest, and immediately declared Jocelyn the winner. She gave him a deprecating look and shoved him none-to-gently down the trail.

  Gradually the slope of the ground lessened and the rushing, churning stream turned into a lazy, flowing river. Ferns lined the banks, lush and verdant, a seriously out-of-place landscape at seventy-six degrees north latitude. As one moved away from the mud adjacent to the river, strange looking trees appeared, some of them soaring to heights of nearly 100 feet. The going was easiest in a narrow zone between the wet, fern beds along the river and the sandy soil where larger plants took over. Th
ey made excellent progress, but all of them knew that they weren’t on a mission to explore the island. Somehow they had to cross the river again and wind their way to the east, to find a route to the coast where they could safely transport Debbie for pick-up. It was now almost noon. In another hour or so they would probably have to turn back, their brief excursion having failed.

  Straight ahead they could see an upcoming break in the tree canopy. It suggested a widening in the river. “Let’s see what’s around the next bend,” Jack said. “If we don’t find any way to get across the water, I vote we turn back. We can load up with that ‘bamboo’ stuff Jocelyn was so jazzed about, and use it to make a boson’s chair to lift Debbie up the cliff. It might also make good firewood. I personally don’t want to spend another night like the last one.”

  The others concurred. Jack took the lead, followed by Spencer. Jocelyn, more interested in plant life than exploration, brought up the rear. As they entered a small grove of what looked like palm trees, a strange buzzing sound could be heard. It grew in intensity as they wound their way through the trees, eventually becoming loud enough to drown out the sound of the river.

  “What the heck is that?” Spencer asked. “It sounds like an engine, like someone’s runnin’ a lawn mowah or a chain saw.”

  They stopped and looked around, bewildered and somewhat apprehensive. What could possibly make that kind of noise? Without warning, something slammed into Jocelyn’s shoulder. She stumbled and fell, unhurt, but startled. “Oh my God, something hit me,” she cried. Clambering back to her feet, she brushed dirt off of her hands and the knees of her jeans. “It felt like…I don’t know, a model airplane, like one of those drones.”

  “It was a bird, I think,” said Jack, “It looked big too, like an eagle or a heron.”

  “You’re both wrong,” noted Spencer. As if on cue another one flew by, passing inches over their heads. “It was a dragonfly, a great big dragonfly, with a wingspan of about two feet.”

  IX.

  Marcie sat staring at Debbie. The older woman had suffered through a bad night. Every time she moved, the pain in her leg and ribs woke her up, and every time that happened Marcie wound up at her side administering pain medication when appropriate and just holding her hand or making her more comfortable when little else could be done. Finally, just before the Sun poked over the ridge to the northeast, Debbie had slept.

  After her fellow students left, Marcie had gone back to bed. It was dew dripping from the edge of their shelter that had woken her. She regarded her patient with concern. Debbie’s care was her primary responsibility, but she found her thoughts constantly shifting to her friends who had yet to return. They’d been gone for several hours. It shouldn’t take very long to explore along the coast for a mile or two. She began to fear that something may have happened to them.

  “Have I been asleep long?”

  Marcie smiled at the remark. Color had returned to Debbie’s face. She looked much improved after having gotten some rest. “About four hours,” Marcie replied.

  “I feel so much better,” said Debbie. “The ibuprofen you gave me helped enormously.” She glanced around the shelter, “Any word from the others?”

  “Naw, they haven’t been gone very long,” Marcie said, trying to sound upbeat, “I don’t expect them to return until late today, maybe not even until tomorrow.”

  The same worrisome thought was on both their minds: Jocelyn, Jack and Spencer might have to spend the night ‘out there’ somewhere with no shelter and no sleeping bags. They had to be cold and miserable right now. They hadn’t taken much warm clothing. Debbie’s brow knitted in concern, “God, I hope they don’t freeze out there.” Her voice suddenly broke and she sobbed, “I am so sorry for what I’ve put you all through. This side trip was a terrible idea. If anything happens to any of you I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Marcie didn’t want Debbie to get upset. Her level of pain and discomfort seemed to be highly dependent on her emotional state. “Nonsense, Debbie,” she said firmly. “The four of us are fine, and before you know it, you’ll be sitting by a fire with Morgan by your side and we’ll be talking about the most exciting experience of our lives. Everything is going to be just fine.”

  “I suppose. I shouldn’t underestimate their ingenuity. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this, but I spoke with many of your teachers during the selection process. I wanted to know how creative, self-reliant and hard-working all of you were. Aside from a few uncertainties, none of which had to do with you, we knew we had chosen a talented group. Your colleagues are a resourceful bunch. If they get too cold, they’ll probably just find some grotto and huddle together to keep warm.”

  “I know if I were with them, Jack wouldn’t get cold,” Marcie said wistfully, “my problem is: I bet he wouldn’t even notice.”

  “I don’t blame you for having a crush on him. I would too if I were in your shoes.”

  “He’s so different from the guys in my school. I mean he’s kind, considerate, funny, and it’s all I can do to keep from running my fingers through that gorgeous curly hair of his. And let’s not forget those pecks, deltoids and glutes…he has the cutest glutes! I just wish I had boobs. He might take me seriously then.” She sat back and pouted. “I suffer from the curse of ‘retarded development.’”

  “You’re a beautiful young woman, Marcie, fit and well proportioned. Having big boobs isn’t important. Heck, look at me, I’m not exactly well endowed. Morgan loves me for who I am, he doesn’t give a damn about my bra size.”

  “Well yours are a lot bigger than mine, and that’s not all. I’ve been getting my monthly scourge for less than a year. I’m the last one in my class to ‘graduate into womanhood’ as the saying goes. Guys like Jack aren’t going to take me seriously if I look like a little kid.”

  Debbie winced as she turned to face her charge. “Listen; don’t be in such a hurry to grow up. You’ll get there in due time. I know it’s difficult, but in a few years this won’t matter.”

  “That’s what Gail, my stepmom, says. She’s sweet and tries to help, but it’s really hard for me to talk to her about stuff like this. I don’t know why exactly; maybe it’s because she and my dad are, you know…” Marcie made a circle with her left thumb and forefinger and slid her right middle finger in and out.

  Debbie laughed. “Marcie, you don’t have to be so graphic. Just say it: they have sex. In case you aren’t aware, most couples do that. Why should it matter?”

  “When you’re intimate like that with somebody, you tend to talk about private stuff. At least I think you do. That’s what Sharon Pendergast says. She’s done it already, or at least she says she has. I don’t want my issues with puberty to be THE topic of conversation in my parents’ bedroom.”

  “I think it’s time to change the subject,” Debbie said. “What do you think of Spencer?”

  The question took Marcie completely by surprise. “He’s okay I suppose, kinda hard to talk to.” She reflected on their conversation in the bus while en route to Olafsvik, “and he can be a real jerk at times.”

  Debbie smiled, “I can imagine.” Her tone softened, “Do you think you could ever have romantic feelings for him?”

  “I don’t know. He’s cute, but…why? What do you know?”

  “I can tell he really likes you. He’s constantly looking your way when your back is turned. He likes you, but he’s too shy to let you know.”

  “Get outta town! Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  Marcie looked stunned.

  “Is something wrong, Marcie?”

  No, no. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just, holy cow, I’ve never had a guy take an interest in me before. What do I do?”

  “The best advice I can give is to be yourself. He’ll come around eventually if his feelings are genuine. Once the ice is broken it’ll be easy to get to know one another.” Debbie felt like a school girl gossiping with one of her old friends. Perhaps it wasn’t right, talking about Spencer behind his back, but Ma
rcie was a good kid. She would handle the information in an appropriate way and right now she needed the emotional lift.

  * * *

  Whap! The wing of another giant bug hit Spencer in the face.

  “Ow! You bastehd.” The blow knocked both his glasses and his cap from his head.

  Jocelyn had squatted down and was covering her head with both hands, playing defense. Jack, stunned at the flock of huge insects coming from all directions, took an offensive approach; he was trying to swat them. One lucky blow landed squarely to the head of a fly, causing it to change its flight path but otherwise having little effect.

  “I’m gettin’ outta heah.” Spencer had had enough. He ducked low and blindly rushed through the trees while flailing his arms to keep the insects away. First Jocelyn, then Jack, adopted Spencer’s technique, and soon all three were out of the palm forest and free of the swarm of monster flies.

  “Boy, there’s something about those trees they really like,” Jack said. The relief in his tone was profound. “On our way back, what say we avoid this place?”

  Jocelyn wasn’t listening. Apparently she had already dismissed the episode with the dragonflies and was bent over a small tree of the type that populated the grove they’d just left.

  “See this cone type thingy?” She pointed to a reddish-brown mass in the crown of the plant. “There’s a sticky, smelly sap around its base. That’s what’s got those dragonflies so hot-to-trot.” She sniffed and wrinkled her nose, then backed away to study the leaves and trunk. “And this is no palm tree,” she said with excitement, “it’s some sort of cycad.”

  “You must be part dragonfly,” Jack quipped, “that plant’s got you pretty excited too.”