An Island Between Two Shores

by Graham Wilson

  When she was a child, Liana’s father would take her trout fishing on a muddy tributary of the Seine. He was a good fisherman and their wicker basket was often filled with writhing trout after just a short while on the water. She was startled the first time she saw languid sockeye salmon choking the entrance of a creek near Dawson City. She had never seen so many fish in one place. The abundance she had known stood in stark contrast to her present reality.

  Liana cupped her hand over her eyebrows to cut the glare of the water and ice. She scanned the river’s surface for the darting of a fish. She stared into the deep pool and concentrated her attention on a single spot in front of a large rock. The rock was dark and Liana felt that a silvery fish would be easier to see when it swam in front of the rock. She spent hours concentrating on this minute area of the river but never saw anything. It was as though the river didn’t have fish, but Liana knew that was not possible. “All rivers have fish,” she said under her breath. “How can a river suddenly be barren?”

  The raven sat on its perch on the root of the log, feigning disinterest. It preened its wings, oblivious to Liana’s struggle. It didn’t make a sound. The raven didn’t even call to her anymore. Liana felt listless and beaten.

  Liana’s thoughts drifted beyond the island and back in time. She remembered once seeing gypsy “fish ticklers” in a village outside Paris. Her parents had taken her on a picnic and the train ride had been exciting as they stood outside between the coach cars. Brightly dressed gypsies were camped in their caravans next to a muddy little creek. A lone gypsy man sat next to the river with his arm submerged past his elbow. He wore a purple bandana that set off his wiry black beard and exotic dark eyes. Liana and her parents stood next to a tree and watched the bent man. Her father told her that the man was a tickler, one who could catch trout with only his bare hands. He wiggled his fingers and the curious trout swam close to them. Somehow the gypsy would end up stroking the trout’s chin or belly. Once the trout became less timid, they moved within his grasp. In an instant the fish tickler grabbed a trout firmly and hauled it onto the bank, all in a single motion. He dropped it in the long grasses next to the river and let it flop around. The old gypsy grinned at Liana and her family.

  This memory moved her to action. Impulsively, Liana pushed up her sleeves and stepped forward onto the ice shelf. Excitedly she reached toward the river with her arm. Realizing her mistake, Liana pulled her shirt and jacket down over her wrist. “The mind plays tricks,” she mumbled softly, and carefully stepped backwards, startled by her momentary lapse of judgment.

  Liana had heard stories of people who had frozen to death. Everyone in the North knew stories of how the winter had taken the unprepared or unlucky, how hypothermia so confused its victims that they had became mad and thought they were burning up but were freezing instead. In their delusions, they would rip off their clothing and writhe naked in snowdrifts, their movements growing slower and slower. The deep arctic cold would swallow them up and they would be found twisted like deformed statues with horrific gasping expressions. Liana feared that, as she weakened, she would meet a similar end. Already she had almost tried fish tickling. “I must keep away from the river until it’s frozen,” she told herself.

  Liana’s pants were feeling loose. She inspected her belt and decided to carve another hole so she didn’t have to hold them up. Liana wrapped the free end of the fishing line around her ankle and then undid her belt buckle and pulled the leather tail until it was free. She then took out her knife and, using the point of the blade, swiveled it until she punctured the leather with a tiny hole. Liana then slid the belt back through the loops and did up the buckle at the new hole. With a sense of satisfaction, she settled back into the cold gravel.

  The ice was gradually closing the gap between the shore and the island, especially on the east side where the current was less strong. As the river froze, its current lost its energy. Imperceptibly it slowed and soon only a trickle of water would gurgle through the deepest of its channels under layers of ice. In places, the ice would be more than six feet thick. But now it was only a thin layer extending thirty feet from shore and less than fifteen feet from the island.

  Liana tried not to think about fishing. She felt it was bad luck to be overly eager for anything and she didn’t want to jinx herself. But her thoughts continually returned to the river and her inability to attract even the most inconsequential of fish. After half an hour, her arm was stiff and bloodless and her legs cramped. She stood and stretched her legs and lowered her arm while looking across the river at the forest. “How am I going to walk off this island?” she thought. “I’m falling apart and soon I won’t be even able to walk.”

  Sitting beside the river fishing felt more lonely than slumbering under the log. Fishing left too much time to explore her darker thoughts. Under the log she entered a dreamy twilight where she could escape the island in her dreams. Fishing was depressing and the raven was always waiting, reminding her of the odds of surviving the island. She looked at the river stirring in the gap and found the dappled ripples of the surface hypnotic.

  Liana turned and stumbled through the ankle-deep snow to her shelter. As she climbed under the log she heard the unmistakable flapping of the raven’s wings. She turned to watch her tormentor disappearing downriver. Its outstretched black wings beating powerfully as it climbed above the largest spruce trees bordering the water. Liana watched the raven slowly fade into the distance and felt immense envy at its ability to fly away. As it flew, it called its grotesque song, the croaking and groans gradually becoming softer and fading into silence.

  Liana was glad to see the raven fly away, but despite her dislike for the bird, she felt more alone than ever. She took a deep breath and looked at the distant forest before climbing under the log. With a sigh, Liana curled into the frozen gravel and closed her eyes. She braced for the frigid night. Another day had passed.

  4

  Liana’s eyes opened bit by bit. They felt gritty and her vision was blurred. Another morning.

  Without getting to her feet, Liana lifted her shirts and jacket to check the cut on her hip. Her wound throbbed and itched, which she felt was a good sign of healing. She lay under the log and leaned into the watery sunlight that pierced the entrance to her chamber and tried to focus a beam squarely on the incision. The wound was red and angry but was starting to heal, which surprised Liana under the circumstances. She pushed on the skin around the cut and it pleased her that it seemed to be less sensitive to pressure.

  Liana pushed her matted auburn hair back from her forehead and braced for the reality outside of her shelter. Greasy tresses framed her gaunt, expressionless face. She carefully climbed out from beneath the log without disturbing the snow covering the pony wall. The more snow that accumulated on the wall, the warmer she felt at night. Once she was standing, the chill shrouded her like a heavy, restrictive cloak.

  The raven had returned. He clutched his perch on the root of the log feigning disinterest, while listening attentively to every word Liana spoke. Occasionally he preened his wing feathers, or pecked his jet-black beak at small imperfections or dirt. He watched Liana indirectly out of boredom. They were locked in a contest of stamina to see whose will was stronger. This tension motivated her to persevere with fishing and survive until the river froze into a temporary bridge.

  To throw the baited hook into the river, Liana now had to walk several feet onto the ice rim around the island. The ice was thin in places and Liana had to move carefully with short, gentle steps. She followed her footprints from previous mornings but the new snowfall made it more difficult for her to reach the fishing spot. Liana was clumsier and weaker, less alert and more uncoordinated, each day she remained on the island. She stumbled through the drifts with a slight stagger.

  Liana pulled her arm back and tossed the line into the sluggish current. It made a glint as it broke the glassy surface of the water and she watched the line sink into the eddy until it was hidden under the ice shelf. S
ilent and alert, she waited. The sun slowly tracked across the sky and the day passed as so many had with a mixture of disappointment and boredom.

  As sunset began to light the sky, Liana started to wind the line around her bare hand. After a few wraps, she gasped in disbelief. “The bait’s gone!” she whispered. As she inched forward a few steps, the ice cracked along several penetrating faults. Instinctively, Liana froze and held her breath. She stepped toward the river to retrieve the bait but she couldn’t even see it. She knew that the pool was only about six feet deep and that the bait likely hadn’t drifted too far before sinking to the bottom. But none of this mattered. The cold would take her in only a few minutes.

  Liana’s mind raced with the necessity of retrieving the bait, and she started looking for an easy place to enter the river. “Don’t do it,” a voice inside her pleaded. “You’ll freeze for sure.” Liana stumbled backwards and stared with bewilderment at the river. Lumpy tears welled in her eyes. She felt as though she couldn’t trust herself and feared that she would dive into the river despite the risk. She was losing control of her good judgment and this frightened her more than anything else had since the day Henry was shot.

  Disheartened, Liana trudged back to where she had been fishing and fell onto a rock. She was flushed; tears ran down her grimy cheeks. Her heart sank as she examined the bare metal hook, and a ratcheting cry reverberated in her throat. Liana felt dizzy and squatted back on the rock. She looked away from the river and stared at the conformity of the snow. All her hopes had rested on catching fish. She couldn’t return to the log empty-handed to slowly starve and freeze to death.

  After several minutes Liana started to feel relief. “Almost a week of fishing,” she told herself, “and I haven’t even seen a single fish.” She knew it was time to stop fishing and conserve her energy. Standing next to the river had brought her to delirium on several occasions. She had forced herself to stay exposed to the wind and cold, but now she could rest under the log and wait.

  Liana glanced at the silhouette of the trees bordering the river. Henry had often told her, “My people are in the Jack pine roots.” Liana looked at the forest and asked plaintively, “Are you there, Henry?” She dug her hands into her pockets and staggered away from the river.

  Back at the log, Liana shuddered in the dank familiarity of her den. All she had to do now was last long enough for the ice to harden. She looked up at the sky and took a deep breath and considered her singular option. The river would freeze and she would escape to the shore and walk to town. She closed her eyes but sleep eluded her. The cold filled the valley with a shocking ferocity.

  In the twilight of early morning, Liana heard the sound of snow falling. A hush filled the island and she could barely hear the whisper of the river. She was grateful that days were so brief this time of the year. Snow accumulated on the pony wall and the cave darkened as snow narrowed the entrance to a thin slit. The wind swirled a cornice of snow over the log, and ice granules seeped beneath it. Liana pushed the snow away from her lair so that she had enough room. Touching snow would melt it and make her wetter and even colder.

  In the afternoon, when the sun felt like it was high in the sky, Liana finally decided to venture into the storm and break the monotony of her restless slumber. She carefully climbed out of the cavern. It felt much colder in the stark, gusty storm. Standing outside, Liana stretched her arms toward the sky. She closed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. It had never occurred to her that falling snow had a smell. Her tracks from the previous day had been buried, but this was fine, Liana thought, because the paths never led anywhere good. She walked toward the river to get a mouthful of water. She felt off-balance, disoriented by the snow and how the island and forest had so quickly been transformed.

  Like everyone in the North, Liana knew that even during winter she needed to get at least one drink of water each day. Dehydration would kill her faster than hunger. As such, she followed a daily ritual of checking the progress of the ice and having at least a gulp of water. This day she ventured through the fresh snow to the jagged edge of the ice. The deep snow made her legs tingle as it fell over the cuff and into her boot. She followed the short trail to the ice and took a couple steps. It yielded slightly, cracking and popping under her weight.

  She knelt near the edge of the ice and dunked her cupped hands into the meek current. She needed only a single palm full of water to feel satisfied but forced herself to take three. The water trickled down her raw throat to her empty stomach. She felt indifferent to everything, not just the cold. She was startled by her reflection in the water. Her emaciated face was unfamiliar and frightening. She trudged back to the log and climbed underneath.

  The storm raged through the evening and most of the night. Since she was always awake, she listened attentively to it surge and abate. She heard the shrill shriek of the storm and tingled with each gust that sent tendrils of drafts into the cave. Liana knew the river was slowing and losing energy; she could feel it.

  Morning took forever to come. The snowfall had insulated the log, and Liana felt less cold, as if she had a light blanket covering her. Or perhaps she was dreaming this feeling of relative warmth, she thought, unsure of her own judgment.

  Liana reminisced about Henry. She never knew when he would tell one of his stories: when he was cooking dinner, sitting beside the woodstove, stacking firewood outside. Sometimes he would tell several stories in a day, and other times, he wouldn’t tell a story for weeks. Some were mystical stories about animal helpers; others were practical stories about not being selfish or the importance of talking gently to people. Once he told her about the first time he cooked dried beans. He had met some white prospectors on his trap line. They invited him into camp and traded him some meat for a pouch of tobacco. They were both fat and were new to living on the land. They offered Henry some beans from a large pot that bubbled on their fire. He ate three big bowls of beans, surprised by their sweetness and soft texture. It was a flavour he had never known, and he was hooked.

  When Henry got to town he went to the general store and bought a bag of beans. Back at his cabin, his kids and wife watched him pour the beans into the pot of water on their woodstove and they eagerly waited for them to cook. He expounded on their incredible taste. His kids dogged him every five minutes and begged, “Are they done yet?” The men had told him to let the beans simmer in the water for at least a couple of hours, but Henry couldn’t wait. After a half hour of boiling, he tasted a bean. It was black and hard and the water tasted foul. He let the beans cook for another hour and tasted them again, but they were still hard and bitter and not at all like the beans the prospectors had made. He let the beans cook the rest of the day and late into the next, but the beans never softened and the family was sullen. Disappointed, Henry took the beans outside and dumped the mess into the snow.

  Later that year, he ran into those same trappers and he told them what had happened. They listened to his story with amusement and then howled with laughter. They explained that Henry had bought coffee beans. Henry also thought this was funny. “I’m a bush Indian,” he said. “I never knew about coffee.” Liana loved this story and the way Henry always easily laughed at himself.

  Hours later she looked through the much smaller opening to see if it was still snowing. She saw stars and the emerald green of the northern lights. The narrow band of iridescence tore across the inky sky, swaying from side to side like a dancer. It was a sight Liana had never tired of. The northern lights had fascinated her more nights than she could remember. She watched them until most of the night had passed. Liana waited in the dark for daylight, dreaming and feeling strangely peaceful.

  Liana awakened from her vigil to the faint call of the raven. At first she thought it must be her imagination and she lay motionless, listening attentively. She assumed that the raven had finally given up and left her alone. But the raven repeatedly cawed its horrible call, which became louder as it approached the island.

  “He must be at lea
st mile away,” thought Liana as she sat up by leaning on her elbows. She peered into the morning twilight through the narrow slit. A heavy mist hung over the river and shrouded the island. The fog made it impossible for Liana to see a hundred feet. Everything looked different because of the fog and the fresh snow. Liana couldn’t see the sun but it seemed to be mid-morning since the brightest patch of cloud was above the ridge. She scurried out from under the log. The snow rose past her knees. The fog was so dense she could barely see the shore on the other side of the river. The raven croaked its songs as it progressed ever closer. It was belching harsh music that Liana didn’t recognize.

  “Maybe it’s a different raven?” she considered.

  Liana imagined that the raven was flying from tree to tree, pausing to make its calls. But in the fog it was difficult to say just how far away he was. The fog and snow made distances and outlines less precise. Sound carried in the frozen forest and Liana knew to distrust her senses.

  “Winter can play tricks on you,” she reassured herself.

  She tried to hone in on the raven’s horrible song and looked in vain in every direction. And then she heard panting. Her heart stopped. It sounded close. In horror Liana scurried back under the log. She heard the panting again, deep and heavy. “Can ravens pant?” she asked herself, her heart racing.

  An instant later Liana heard the unmistakable howl of a wolf. The piercing wails reverberated through the valley. It was the loudest sound Liana had heard in a long time; she braced against it and winced. The raven’s persistent caw was provoking the wolf. The howls pierced the fog and cut through her like a hot knife through butter. When the howl finally stopped, the raven bubbled strange squeaks and excited pops. Liana thought she had heard every sound the raven was capable of making, but these rough cries were new to her. She heard the raven’s wings flap as it came closer to the island. A moment later, the raven’s bubbling songs were followed by the cacophony of an entire howling pack. The wolves shrieked in unison, their cries building in intensity. Desperately, Liana clutched her hands over her ears and cowered. She was suddenly stunned by the realization that the raven had led the wolves to the island.