by Joe Beernink
“Darlin’, stay. There’s no reason to get up. We can just snuggle for a bit. Reward ourselves for all our hard work.”
Izzy’s last meal came perilously close to disgorging. She pushed at his hands, but his grip only tightened. Her fingernails dug into the back of his hand, and, for the briefest of moments, she thought he would let her go. His hands clutched at her again, and now his leg pinned her to the mattress. He snatched her wrist as she punched his side, and trapped her arm under his elbow.
“I love you so much, darlin’.” His beard scratched her neck as he bit her collarbone. She struggled again and landed a punch to his cheek with her free hand. He barely noticed. He slid on top of her, purging the air from her lungs in a violent cough. His face moved. In a flash, his mouth was on hers. His breath, hot and rancid like rotten meat, pushed into her mouth. She tried to turn her head, but he held her still. She choked as he slid his tongue along her lips.
She screamed, but he enveloped her, cutting off all sound. His hands groped, found the gap between her tunic and her pants, and lifted the hem of her shirt. His hand slithered over her exposed skin, sliding first up to her chest, then plunging down, tearing off her thin clothes and undergarments. Still his mouth attacked her, strangling every attempted scream. She gagged and bit down. A metallic taste filled her mouth, and for a second she thought she had driven him off. She gulped two breaths of fresh air. Then he was back on her.
She clawed at the bed frame. This time, nothing came between her and him. The faintest of protests escaped her throat.
He did not listen, and he did not stop.
When it was over, he fell onto her and lay motionless, his weight nearly crushing her. Tears burst from her eyes. She pushed on his shoulder. He slid off without a word.
She rolled away and fell onto the floor, the cold air shocking her into a fit of coughing. Her whole body shook. She pulled her clothes tight around her. In the dim light from the window, she could just make out the whites of his eyes. He started to move, stopped, and slowly rolled back over to the other side of the bed.
The pain. Oh God, the pain. She crawled to the stove. The burn wouldn’t stop. Blood ran down her legs. The agony grew worse, moment by moment, till she could no longer breathe. She vomited onto the stack of wood by the stove. A slimy mixture of blood and vomit drooled from her mouth. She heaved again, until nothing remained in her stomach. The smell of her stomach contents mixed with the smell of him forced her to gag again. She collapsed onto the hearth.
Oh, Angie!
What just happened to me?
Why?
Why would he?
Why, Angie?
Why?
Angie, how could you let this happen?
How could you leave me with him?
Outside, the wind whistled through bare branches and shook the walls. Ice and snow pelted against the window. Invisible drafts sliced through the room and leaked around her all-too-thin clothes. What was the temperature? Forty below? Fifty? With the windchill, minus sixty? Going through that door would be escape, one way or another. In ten minutes, twenty at the most, it would all be over.
Angie did not answer her pleas, and Izzy’s legs could not lift her to take her out into the storm. The moss she had previously shoved into the gap in the wall fell back out, as if it had not been able to stand up to the wind. A cold gust ripped across the room and onto her exposed skin. She yanked a blanket from the bed and curled up next to the stove. The pain would not stop, and she did not sleep.
CHAPTER 12
Jake
(Summer)
Jake rolled over in his sleeping bag and winced. A sharp rock or a stick, somehow unnoticed when he’d set up the tent the night before, centered on one of his vertebrae and threatened to dislodge it. Jake shifted his position again, but whatever comfort the bag had once provided could no longer be found.
Six days of hard travel had left every muscle tight, every joint sore, and every callus raw. His body didn’t want to get up, and neither did his brain. Though he’d been exhausted the night before, sleep had not come easy, nor had it been deep. Every noise outside the tent triggered worry of a bear or wolf attack, or of a raccoon stealing his food. He had camped a thousand times, but never alone. On no other trip in his life had he ever been so completely and utterly alone. That truth kept him awake even when the ground wasn’t rocky, and the woods were quiet.
Sleep or no sleep, it was time to get moving. He pulled on his boots and exited the tent.
Days of sunshine had finally surrendered to sullen skies with a misting drizzle. The tops of the trees swayed and bent. Leaves curtsied as water dripped and splashed to the ground below. The drip of rain off his hat brim added to lack of sleep put him in a mood fit to match the foul weather.
Amos had warned him that the trip would be hard, and Jake had heard the words. Hearing and listening, however, are two different things. He had always believed, right up until the moment Amos had died, that the two of them would be able to do this trip—that somehow, with spring, his grandfather would regain his strength, and together they would make it out. Now, less than a week into the three-week journey, he knew exactly what his grandfather had known. Life here was hard. For the first time, doubt crept into his mind. With this doubt came more fears that something horrible had happened to his father. If Dad couldn’t make it out . . . Dad, with his twenty years’ experience in the bush. Strong, fit, Dad. Jake searched for another explanation as to why his father had not come back for them. There had to be another explanation. Yet Jake could think of nothing.
Jake stood by the canoe. The rain hitting his shoulders felt as if it would pound him into the forest floor like a hammer would a tent stake. His feet, however, weren’t swallowed up by the earth. With a little effort, he moved them. His father, Jake reasoned, wouldn’t have stopped until or unless he could no longer move. Jake wouldn’t either. And, if his dad was still alive, Jake would find him.
His gaze turned southward. Somewhere ahead, not too far, was a river. That river would get him out of the bush and allow him to get back in the canoe and rest his exhausted legs.
He cleaned up his camp and moved on.
Two hours later, he slid the canoe into the river. The flow headed north. Jake pointed the bow southward and worked his way against the current. The water, not so long ago ice and snow, was freezing cold. Paddling upriver was faster than breaking trail through the bush, but not by much. Twice, Jake pulled in to shore to lift the canoe around rocks that funneled the flow into a chute no wider than the canoe was long. Each time he got out, he lamented the loss of time and the extra effort required to travel the distance.
The banks steepened as the river sawed its way through a ridge. The speed of the current increased. Jake dug in with his paddle, propelling the canoe from eddy to eddy. The rain from the clouds above mixed with the mist generated by the moving water beneath him. The channel tightened further, till, from the center, Jake could touch both banks at once with his paddle. In some places, the water moved so quickly that the paddle could barely gain any traction. Instead, Jake poled the canoe with a piece of driftwood. The steep sides slid ever higher as he pushed forward.
Get out while you can. Scout the line, Amos’s voice warned.
But Jake could see a curve in the river coming, and with the way the ridges seemed to be dropping nearby, he knew that once he was past this bottleneck, the river would open back up. He pushed on.
Ahead, however, in the middle of the curve, a jumble of broken logs held back the flow, blocking his passage completely. The pile breached the surface nearly to Jake’s height. Water boiled around the logs, surging between the gaps. Broken branches swung and twisted as the pressure whipped them back and forth. Soon the weight of the water built up behind this dam would overcome the strength of the wood, and the whole mess would shoot down the little canyon like a runaway freight train.
Jake rammed his driftwood pole into the rocky riverbed to steady the canoe. The sides here were too s
teep to climb. To turn around and head back to a more friendly start to the portage would mean losing an hour’s hard-earned gains.
He eyed the pile. It would only take a minute or two to scale it, dragging the canoe with him. On the other side, the slow open water of the backed-up river would be almost pleasant to paddle after so many days fighting the bush.
Jake pushed closer to the pile. The canoe lifted as water seethed from a gap below the surface. He steadied himself by grabbing at one of the logs. The continuous spray had stripped the bark, leaving the wood slick. With one hand on the log, he grabbed his pack with the other and slung it over his shoulder.
The pack secure, he held the forward strut on the canoe with his free hand and transferred his weight to the log. It bent under the extra burden, dipping perilously close to the frothing surface. Relieved of its passenger, the canoe bobbed even more and threatened to break free of Jake’s tenuous grip. He clamped his fingers down on the aluminum until it felt like he would crimp the metal. He shifted his feet, searching for solid footing. The log bent farther under the additional weight. Even over the roar of the water and hiss of the spray, Jake heard the wood crack.
Jake nearly jumped back into the canoe right there and then, but just as he started to move, the water lifted the bow out of the water and pushed the canoe toward the pile. Jake pulled with all his might, and the canoe slid onto the pile next to him, until only the stern remained in the current.
The pile, which he could now see was almost like a tiny island, was longer than it was tall by a factor of five. A dozen trees jammed into the thin cut in the rock. Loose branches filled some of the gaps. Weeds and grass stems piled up within the muddle. Tree trunks jutted up at odd angles, forming a three-dimensional maze.
Amos’s words of caution fluttered through Jake’s brain again. He could still go back down the pile, back along the river, and find a place to start a more normal portage. But the open water beckoned, tantalizingly close. He leaned forward, tested the next logical footstep, and inched ahead.
The canoe squeaked a protest each time he moved it. Twigs and splintered wood scratched at its bottom. Jake lifted it as best he could to avoid the sharpest of sticks, but he didn’t dare try to carry the entire mass. He leaned on the canoe while finding his next foothold on the slippery wood.
Halfway across the pile, he came to a tree lodged straight across the gorge. A narrow gap under it appeared easier to pass through than the jumble of branches above. If he used the canoe as a bridge, then pulled it back up from the opposite side, he’d be able to reach the other side of the gap without even getting wet.
He barely paused before sliding the canoe into the hole beneath the tree.
The bow bobbed and jerked as the foaming water whipped it one way, then another. He steadied the craft and pushed it farther into the breach. The fit was tighter than he’d expected. The gunwale barely fit under the obstructing tree, but he managed to steady the boat, and then climbed in.
Halfway across, the pack on his back snagged on the stub of a branch, stopping him in his tracks. Jake’s pulse raced. He worked his arm up over his head and gently pried the offending branch upward off his pack. Above his head, the tree trunk shifted, but held. He removed his pack and food canister and started forward again. Three times the canoe bumped up against the trunk, and twice the trunk moved, only to slide slowly back into its original position.
Getting out on the far side was no easier. Jake tossed his pack onto a stable part of the pile to lighten the load. He stood in the bobbing canoe, fought for balance, then leaped across the remaining gap. As he landed, his left foot slipped on a slick log and shot backward into the water. The canoe was propelled backward as well, the current spinning the bow to the left, out of his grasp.
Jake scrambled to his feet, turning to grab the canoe before it slipped completely out of reach. The fingers of his left hand latched on to the bow, but the branch he held on to with his right broke and gave way. Jake pitched forward into the freezing water. The flow tore at his legs. His mouth filled with water. He coughed, gulped more air, and held it deep in his chest as the suction pulled him under the canoe. The canoe began to roll. Jake searched with his right hand for something—anything—to use to pull himself back up above the water. He curled his legs, pressing his knees against the gunwale. More water poured over him and into the canoe, forcing him down, deeper into the pile. His lungs burned. His right hand finally found a handhold. With a kick of his legs, he broke the surface and launched himself into the branches above. The branch bent and torqued toward the water. With his every movement, it sank lower into the water. But as it sank, the tree it was attached to rolled and pulled him clear of the hole in the middle of the pile. Jake rode the tree as it completed its roll. By the time the roll stopped, he was even with his pack, perched on a solid part of the pile, and out of immediate danger. He dropped down next to his pack and put his hands on his knees.
Jake shook from head to toe. Only his tenuous grip on the canoe had saved his life. It had all happened so fast. Had his right hand missed that thin branch, he would never have made it. Had the tree not rolled just the way it did, he would have been trapped underneath it. He was lucky to be alive, and he knew it.
But he also knew his life had just gotten a lot harder. For under that tree, his canoe, now filled with water and pinned down by the flow, was lost. He’d seen canoes submerge before—on one guiding trip, two clients had flipped in a rapid and buried the bow under a waterfall. It had taken six of them—and a bunch of ropes—to drag it free. Even if he could get the tree off the boat—which was a big if considering he had only a little hatchet and his machete—and even if the pile didn’t collapse in the meantime, he’d still have to lift a massive amount of water to free the canoe. By himself, he’d never be able to do it.
Jake cupped his face in his hands in a silent plea. After a moment, he tried to push the tree off the boat, just in case the force of the water’s flow would somehow lift the canoe. But the tree, having settled into a new equilibrium, barely moved. The canoe sank deeper.
He had no choice. He couldn’t stay there. Every minute he stood on the logs was another minute they could all break free and crush him as they tore downriver. He grabbed his pack. The logs under his feet shifted. A loud crack shook the pile. He glanced back at the canoe one last time, buckled the pack up tight, and slid over the next set of logs.
Beyond the pile of logs, the steep sides of the gorge slowly dropped lower. Jake worked himself along a narrow ledge, holding on to the roots of trees which had grown into small fissures in the rock. He pulled himself over the top of the gorge after ten minutes of careful navigation. He collapsed at the top, shivering and shaking. After a moment, he crawled back to the edge and tried to think of another way to free the canoe. With a chainsaw, safety ropes, and a crane, he might be able to get it free. He had none of that—just his inadequate hand tools, and sopping wet clothes he desperately needed to dry.
Jake forced himself to his feet, turned and stumbled inland, looking for a good place to start a fire to warm his chilled body. His father’s words again ran through his head. Shelter. Fire. Water. Food. But now, he added another critical word to the mantra. Canoe.
Finishing his journey would be impossible without one.
CHAPTER 13
Izzy
(Winter)
The storm lasted five days. On the sixth day, the temperature drifted upward to just ten degrees below freezing, which felt almost balmy to Izzy. Rick set out at first light to check his trapline.
“Don’t go too far,” he said as he zipped up his parka.
“Okay.”
“Keep the fire going.”
“Yeah,” Izzy said bitterly.
“Get some more moss for those gaps.”
“I’ll see what I can find.”
“And restock that woodpile. It’s going to get cold again tonight. I’ll be back by dark.”
With that he disappeared, and she finally had the ca
bin to herself.
It was a relief to have him out of the cabin—out of the cabin and away from her. After that first time, once Rick had crossed that line, he had shown no mercy. He said he loved her. He told her that this was what people who loved each other did. He said it would get better . . . feel better . . . eventually.
Lies. All lies. The pain was brutal . . . searing her from the inside out. She hurt . . . everywhere, in a never-ending kind of torment she couldn’t ignore, but couldn’t bear to think about. In the dark, she tried to think about Angie, but pleasant memories could not break the surface of her anguish. She tried to think about her parents, but all she could remember was the horrible way they had died, and how alone she now was. Alone, but not, in the worst possible way. He told her how much he needed her. How he was so happy they were together. How he hoped they would always be together.
The words hurt almost as much as the act that followed them.
For all of Izzy’s desire to be strong, the act of being strong seemed more than she could bear. Stepping out of the cabin felt like breaking out of jail. But there was no escape from this prison.
Snow had piled up nearly to the roof, wrapping impenetrable walls of white around the cabin to the east and west. The wind still ripped across the lake, like a sentry standing guard. She could not outrun that. She could only survive, or not survive.
It took Izzy an hour to dig a channel through the deep bank to the door of the outhouse to dump the pail they had filled during the storm. Finding firewood required going inland to where, under the shelter of tree branches, the snow was barely knee deep instead of over her head. Digging out already downed trees was impossible. She had no choice but to search for dead branches still hung up above the snow and reachable.
By noon, barely half the woodpile had been rebuilt and Izzy was exhausted. Five days of rest should have allowed her time to rebuild her strength and energy, but the five days had not been restful. Not for her. She tried not to think about it as she worked, but every time she came back to the cabin with another load of wood, her sense of panic rose. Every time she opened the door, she feared he would already be back.