Nowhere Wild

by Joe Beernink

  “Shouldn’t we wait this out?” Izzy asked as the wind drove spray from a breaking wave directly into her face. A check of Jake’s face showed his determination to continue. Within a few minutes, the shore disappeared from view, hidden by pelting rain and waves. Izzy’s empty stomach lurched with each sudden drop. A particularly large wave hit her flush in the chest, nearly knocking her overboard. The bottom of the canoe filled with water.

  “It’ll be better once we get around the point.” Jake dipped his head toward a dark shape on the horizon, impossibly far away.

  “If we live that long.” The wind stole Izzy’s reply and blew it away from Jake’s ears—not that he would have listened to her if he had heard. Izzy checked behind her one more time. Jake’s look had not changed.

  Izzy dug her paddle into the oncoming wave. The small canoe teetered on the brink as the wave rolled past. She timed her next paddle stroke and leaned back as the next wave slammed into them.

  “Jake, it’s not safe! We have to head in.” Another wave slid them sideways.

  “We’ll make it. Just paddle!”

  Izzy tightened her grip on the paddle. Arguing with Rick had never worked either. They always have to have their own way. If they’d just listen to me once in a while, life would be so much easier. Izzy muttered a curse and pulled her paddle through the next wave and the one after that.

  Almost imperceptibly, the peninsula grew larger in the distance. Izzy’s arms and back screamed for relief. The gray-green mass in the distance resolved into individual trees. Izzy pushed the bow toward the shore.

  “No!” Jake ordered. “Go right! Hard.”

  “What?” Going right meant going back into the middle of the lake.

  “Go right!”

  “Why?” Izzy shouted.

  “Look. To the left of that big cedar. In the bush.”

  Izzy tried to find the big cedar in a multitude of trees. One looked slightly larger than the rest. Her eyes dropped to its base, then tracked left. A large bush—some kind of half-dead juniper by the looks of it—sat just where Jake had pointed.

  A slight movement caught her eye. She stopped paddling while her eyes determined what it was that she saw. Slightly blinded by the continuous fog of rain over the past hour, it took a moment for her vision to adjust. Then the rain slackened, and Izzy once again spied the movement on the shore.

  Most of the land was green with a thick layer of pine needles. But there, among the bushes, a slightly darker area stood out, and a patch of brown moved. Some of the sticks in the bush were, in fact, antlers. A buck. Izzy gulped the cold air. Now that she saw the animal, she could see nothing else.

  Izzy glanced back at Jake. The grin on his face told her all she needed to know. That deer would be their dinner. And their breakfast. And all the food they would need to reach Thompson.

  Yet Jake hadn’t reached for his gun.

  “You want me to take a shot?” Izzy shifted in the canoe to reach for the gun.

  “God, no.” Jake shook his head. “I’ll take it, but not from here. We’ll go around the point, then I’ll hike back.” He pointed slightly to the right. “Keep paddling. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

  Izzy slid her paddle back into the water. Her eyes split time between watching for the next oncoming wave and checking to make sure the deer did not suddenly spook and run. They rounded the point, well out of reach of its rocky bottom and whitecapped breakers. As Jake had predicted, the water beyond the point, out of the wind, lay nearly flat. He steered them neatly in to a sheltered strip of gravel. Izzy bounded from the canoe and onto the beach, ready to head out on the hunt.

  Jake dragged the canoe clear of the water. He shook the rain from his clothes and dumped the lake water from his boots. He removed the rifle from its case.

  “Come on. Let’s go,” Izzy urged.

  “You’re not coming. You don’t have a gun, and neither of us have vests. I don’t want to get separated and end up shooting you.”

  “I’ll stay close. What if you need help?”

  “I won’t. Stay here. Dump the canoe. Check the gear. See if you can get a fire going.”

  Jake checked the gun for load, and his belt for his knife.

  A second later, all Izzy could see were the moving branches where he had disappeared into the brush. Left behind again. Just like with Rick.

  She shook the rain from her poncho and kicked the ground.

  CHAPTER 37

  Jake

  The grind across the lake had been too long and too dangerous. Jake had known that as soon as they set into the water, but admitting defeat by going back would have been a kill shot to his hopes of getting out alive. His arms and back had nearly buckled under the pressure of trying to keep the canoe upright and on track. Izzy had been correct to question the decision. Again, his impatience had forced a mistake. His grandfather’s voice chirped up. Jake shushed it. Now wasn’t the time for a lecture. If he could get this buck, the risk would have all been worth it.

  Water dripped from every branch and every leaf. Jake took long, careful strides, making as little noise as possible. His pace slowed as he closed on his target. His eyes scanned the shore, looking for the familiar cedar. The new angle rendered his memory of the deer’s position nearly useless. Everything looked different. He took his time. In this thick brush, he would get only one shot. Their lives depended on it being a good one.

  The whistle of the wind and the crash of waves obscured any sounds of his prey. The smell of the churned-up lake disguised any animal odors. All he could smell was fish, and he wasn’t sure any longer if that smell was the lake or his own fragrance.

  He paused and checked for the slightly darker area in the brush. He was close. The hair stood up on his neck. He stepped forward, waited a heartbeat, and repeated. He had seen hunters walk right by deer hidden in grass next to them and laughed as the deer scampered away once behind them.

  He flexed his stiff trigger finger. It barely moved. Slowly, he removed his hand from the trigger guard and stretched it three times. His skin was white with cold. He blew warm air into his hand.

  Five meters ahead and to his right, the deer bolted from its cover.

  Jake’s fingers fumbled back to the trigger as he pressed the gun to his shoulder. The deer rocketed away, heading northeast from the lake, already at a full run by the time Jake was ready to shoot. The thick brush obscured a clear view of the animal as it fled. Jake hastily lined up the rifle, led the animal slightly, took a quick breath, and squeezed off a shot.

  CHAPTER 38

  Izzy

  The sound of the rifle made Izzy jump. She stared in the direction of the shot, wondering if Jake would come back with the deer in tow, or, more likely, empty-handed. A little gloating would have felt so good right then—but not as good as a full stomach.

  He should’ve let her take the shot from the boat. She could have made it. Easy.

  She knew that was a lie. She’d shot a real gun exactly twice in her life, both times from a prone position with her arms well braced, not from a boat on a frothing lake.

  Still, he should have let her go with him. Two sets of hands were always better than one.

  She picked up a rock and tossed it into the waves. A heavy drop of rain smacked her directly between the eyes. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. She wanted to scream—wanted to scream at the weather—it was supposed to be summer and warm, not this cold rain that never ended. She wanted to scream at the lake—lakes were supposed to be easy to paddle on. Every stroke out there had been murderous. She wanted to scream at Jake for treating her like a little girl. He went out and did the hunting, and she was supposed to what? Cook? Clean? Get a fire going? Her anger fizzled. A fire. They needed a fire to boil water and to dry their clothes, if that was even possible out here.

  Reluctantly, she turned for their beached canoe and set about doing what needed to be done. She put the pack and their supplies on the beach and dumped the water out. Another twenty minutes on those waves
and the water would have been up to the cross braces. She shook the canoe in every direction possible, until the only trickles of water were from the rain still hitting it.

  She dug the flint and striker from Jake’s pack, intent on building a small fire on the gravel. After five minutes of fruitless searching, she gave up on finding dry tinder and put the flint back in the exact place it had been. Once, she had put it in the wrong place and Jake had completely flipped out. Not a Rick-level flip out—he had only sworn once—but he had looked at her with suspicious eyes and didn’t seem satisfied until she dug it out of the bottom of the pack and handed it to him.

  She glanced at the fishing rod and then at the lake. With the rain and the waves and the wind, the shallows would be filled with churned-up silt. The fish would be off in the deep water waiting for the weather to subside. She left the pole in its case and instead pulled the sling from her pocket. Rocks on this beach were plentiful, and she needed the practice.

  She launched one, then another, and another, in the direction of a washed-up stump to the southeast. Her arms, exhausted from paddling, balked at the strain. She fought through the pain and whipped the rocks overhead. One out of ten flew close to where she wanted it to go. With her salvaged scissors, she trimmed the plastic pouch down so the corners were a little smoother. The next rock flew a little better. The one after that nearly hit the target. Another adjustment and the sling felt almost right. It still wasn’t as good as the first one she had made and learned with, but in a pinch, it might just work.

  She hurled the stones at the stump until her arm felt like it would come loose from its socket. She turned back to where Jake had disappeared into the bush so long before. Worry crept into her mind.

  He should have returned by now.

  What if something had happened to him?

  What if he’d gotten hurt?

  She pocketed the sling and set off through the bush to follow him.

  It didn’t take long to reach the opposite side of the peninsula. There was no sign of Jake. The spot by the cedar tree was vacant, but a multitude of hoofprints in the area suggested it was a popular hangout for the antlered kind. On a nearby leaf, a spot of blood proved that Jake had at least grazed the deer—unless it was Jake’s blood. Izzy shook the thought from her head.

  Izzy’s view drifted out over the water, where the waves still rolled and broke, though the rain seemed to have slackened, and the wind calmed. She could almost see to where they had set in just a few hours before.

  In the distance, a shadow broke over the crest of a wave. Izzy strained to make it out. It disappeared into the next trough, then reappeared a moment later, riding the next crest.

  In the instant before it vanished back into the gap between the waves, Izzy knew exactly what—or rather who—it was. Her stomach lurched. Sweat formed beads on her forehead. A knot lodged in her throat. She watched a moment longer, then turned and sprinted back to the canoe.

  CHAPTER 39

  Jake

  The recoil from the rifle stung Jake’s fingers and jarred his shoulder. He chambered another round as the expended cartridge spun off into the leaves. The deer disappeared behind a cluster of trees.

  “Damn it!” Jake raced off in pursuit as fast as his aching legs could carry him.

  The layer of disturbed mud on the ground tracked the animal’s direction. Jake charged after it, his quiet stalking replaced by a full-out sprint. The hooves of the deer churned up pine needles as it worked itself deeper into the brush. The buck crashed through the forest, knocking more water from branches as it ran.

  Jake paused at the spot where the deer had been when he had taken the shot. A thin mist of blood had settled onto the leaves. Jake’s hopes soared. Had he missed altogether, the chase might have ended right there.

  He turned to call to Izzy, then stopped. Every moment he wasted waiting for her was another moment he might lose track of the deer. The chase was already on. He turned back to the trail of hoofprints. A drop of blood on a branch and blood spatter on the ground gave the first indications that the bullet had more than just scratched the deer. Jake climbed over the trunk of a downed tree that the animal had hurdled without slowing.

  The deeper he went into the trees, the harder the ground became. The tracks disappeared. Only the blood trail—a few drops here and a few drops there—allowed him to follow the injured beast’s progress. The trees thinned as he climbed a small ridge. He temporarily lost sight of the trail as it crossed a creek. A few minutes of frantic searching picked up a large pool of blood where the deer had paused for a moment. He was back on the trail.

  He fought to keep his bearings as he worked his way farther inland. He checked his compass frequently and paid careful attention to possible landmarks: dead trees, unusual rocks, and creek beds. Even so, after a while, it all began to look the same. Without a pencil and paper, getting back to exactly where he’d started would be a crapshoot. The fear of becoming lost this close to home blossomed in the back of his mind. He wished he had brought his backpack. His thoughts drifted back to Izzy. He hoped she would stay put. It would be hard enough to find her as it was.

  The blood trail thickened. More than once the buck had stumbled and left smears on the rocky ground. Jake slowed his pace. His legs were not used to running. His energy reserve dwindled. Only the adrenaline—the thrill of the kill—kept him going.

  The metallic smell of blood infused the air. To the starving hunter, it was divine. He hopped over another downed tree. A long streak of red ran across a layer of moss partially torn free from the log by a wayward hoof.

  The buck lay next to a small bush just ahead of him, panting and wheezing. A thick froth of blood and foam dripped from its mouth and nose. A bullet wound pierced its side halfway down its back, just above the bottom of the ribs. Blood coursed down its hide. It moved as if to stand, but its weakened body could not obey. Jake knew that feeling—had felt it every day since this unending trip had begun. He also knew that his life—Izzy’s life—depended on this animal’s sacrifice. He put the gun to his shoulder and dispatched the injured buck with a second shot, this one to its head.

  He took a moment to catch his breath and to assess the deer. The buck had done quite well for itself in feeding this year. There were seven points on the antlers, all with little damage done through either fighting or sparring with trees. It was early in the season, and the animal had been strong and healthy. Jake didn’t have tobacco to sprinkle, but he did speak the words of thanks to the spirit of the deer as his grandfather had taught him, and asked for its strength to be imparted to Izzy and him.

  Jake cleared the chamber on his gun by pulling another round into place. He allowed himself only a moment to celebrate. Bears and wolves could smell blood in the air better than he could. The chase had left a long trail of it leading to this spot.

  Jake set the gun against a tree and removed his sweater. He studied the buck for a moment, then removed his T-shirt and pulled his knife from his belt. The damp chill attacked him while he was without his gear, but the last thing he wanted was to smear blood all over his clothes. Blood was impossible to remove in the bush. It would eventually harden to a crust, but it would always smell like blood, fresh or not.

  With a series of quick motions, he field dressed the deer. He saved the heart, liver, and kidneys. Those would be their first meal as soon as they had a safe camp and a fire. His mouth watered constantly as he thought of cooking up the meat. He wanted to build a large fire, to warm up, and to feast on his kill, but he could not do it right there and then. Izzy needed food, too. The pile of discarded guts steamed in the cool air, turning the ground into a red morass of leaves, dirt, and blood. He stuffed the edible organs back into the carcass and tied the gut closed with his belt.

  The timer in Jake’s head ticked at a furious rate. He guessed that a kill this big, in these woods, with this much blood, meant he could have as little as half an hour before the uninvited guests began to arrive; a half hour to return to his canoe bef
ore he would be forced to defend his dinner. And the chase had taken at least that long. He wanted to start the clock from the time the final kill had been made, but as soon as blood had been spilled, the race against the clock had started.

  Jake cursed himself for not remembering to bring everything he needed to finish the field-dressing process. If he’d taken his time, he would have remembered to bring the machete to cut off the antlers, and rope to use to tie the forelegs together. Instead, he pulled the laces out of one of his boots and lashed the legs to the antlers. The antlers would do as a drag line. Jake wiped his hands off on the moss, donned his shirt and sweater, then grabbed ahold of the antlers. The gun he looped over his shoulder.

  The deer weighed perhaps fifty-five kilos—not huge by the area’s standards. He’d seen many bucks closer to eighty. On wet, even ground, the deer slid easily. The trail, however, was littered with downed trees and brush that forced Jake to lift the carcass in order to pass by. The points on the antlers snagged on everything and poked him every time he pulled them free from an obstacle. Lifting the deer was easy at first, but with each downed log the deer grew heavier, until it felt like a ship’s anchor, needing a winch to drag. Jake muscled it over each deadfall, straining with every move.

  He followed, where he could, the blood trail left behind by the fleeing deer. It would have been faster to take a more direct route and to avoid the existing trail altogether, except he wasn’t familiar with this area. The lake lay somewhere to the southeast and the canoe was hidden on a little unremarkable bay along the shore. The closer he could aim for the canoe on the first try, the better.

  It took concentration to stay on the trail. The blood track had soaked into the ground and darkened on wood to look just like another knot. Jake put his head down and pulled the carcass as fast as his wasted body would allow. The jackhammer pounding of his heart blocked out the background noise of the forest. His hands hurt from gripping the antlers. A misplaced step sent him sprawling onto the ground, cracking his knee on the root of a nearby tree. Getting up dug deeper into his faltering reserves.