Tears of the River

by Gordon L. Rottman

  Chapter Twenty

  A strangled screech and piercing scream jolted her awake. She rolled out of the hammock taking Lomara with her, both smacking on the ground. The girl screamed. Karen groped for both the flashlight in the hammock and the machete stuck in the ground.

  Finding the light first she snapped it on and swung the beam around, dazzling her own eyes. Everything was as black as her nightmare planet except what was surreally illuminated by the light’s yellow tunnel. Chickens squawked. Her heart raced like a sprinter’s. There was a glint of yellow eyes and they were gone. She swung the beam back, heard bark-scratching noises, Tía shouting, “¿Quién es?” her voice edged with panic. Lomara shouted “¡Mamá!”

  More scratching sounds. A flash of fur on a tree trunk. Karen was up and under the tree shinning the light up. “Well, for Pete’s sake.”

  The masked eyes of a raccoon peered down at her. It hissed defiantly.

  Tía was laughing. Lomara was hanging onto Karen’s leg. A stick bounced off the limb being flung by Jay, a bold feat on his part. The bandit scurried farther into the tree’s crown.

  Then it wasn’t so funny when Karen swung the flashlight around. The agitated chickens were on the ground below their roosting bush and one was dead, partly decapitated.

  “Great.”

  Tía said something a little more expletive.

  They were lucky. Raccoons might be cute, but they were pitiless mass murderers. If one got into a chicken coop, he tore apart, not just killed, every bird he could catch and then only ate part of one. They were sharing an island with a hungry, psychopathic killer. “Just friggin’ great.”

  Once up a tree there was no way to get at him. They’re edible, she reminded herself. At home they even lived in the suburbs, the little murderous bandits are everywhere throughout North and South America.

  Well, take advantage of the situation. She immediately started ripping handfuls of chicken feathers out as fast as she could. They had no pot of boiling water to dunk it in to make this an easy job. She had to do it before the murder victim’s body cooled.

  “Jay, hold the flashlight for me, please.”

  Lomara settled down and climbed back into their hammock. Tía asked Karen if she knew how to clean a chicken.

  “Sí sé, Tía.”

  It was one of those things they’d done in survival classes. She had no idea what time it was. Dark-thirty was all she could guess.

  She lopped off the head and feet, cut out the neck pipe and crop. She slit the belly open and worked her hands inside loosening the innards, careful not to pierce them. With everything loosened, she simply pulled it all out in a double handful. She removed the liver, gizzard, heart, and spleen. With Jay lighting her way, she dumped everything at the far end of the island to appease the raccoon and keep it away from the surviving chickens.

  “You did that barehanded,” said Jay.

  “Shine the light here,” she asked. She knelt at the water’s edge washing her hands. “It’s only yucky the first time you do it.”

  “So totally gross.”

  “You get to do the next one. I’ll talk you through it.”

  “Double gross.”

  Hanging the chicken next to the bag of snake meat, she checked for ants and brushed off a few. It wasn’t safe to leave it raw for very long— salmonella—and it attracted flies. Thinking ahead she decided they’d have pollo for breakfast. The cooked snake would last for the evening meal. She checked the banked fire, breathed air onto the coals, and put on a few pieces of wood to keep it smoldering to swirl around the meat. She moved the still upset chickens to a bush beside her hammock.

  Karen chucked a couple of sticks into the tree to remind the homicidal robber they were still there. The surviving chickens were already asleep.

  She climbed into the hammock. Lomara put her arm around her. Karen could feel her little heart still racing. It was rattling to be shocked awake like that. The girl asked something about the poor chickens and if the mapache would return. Karen told her she didn’t think so.

  Karen watched the glowing coals dim and her eyes faded with them. Of her dreams she remembered only black butterflies.

  »»•««

  The marauding things of the night had abated, evaporating when touched by the sun. The hammock moved as Lomara slipped out. Karen opened her eyes to see a gray-green world of diffused light. Mist clung in the trees. The bird noises were muted in the heavy air. She didn’t want to get up as thoughts ran through her mind on what had to be done. A stronger desire drove her from the hammock. She wanted to be on the river and on their way…to safety.

  “Buenos días,” she greeted everyone emerging from their cocoons. She helped Tía up and preformed the morning routine. Jay appeared with Tía’s toothbrush. He didn’t have much to say.

  Karen first checked the hanging snake and chicken, picking off ants and shooing away flies. Tía shrugged her shoulders as if to ask, “Why bother?” Smoke would help and she went to the fire, kicking the ends of burnt logs and sticks into the fire’s center and blew the coals to life. Next she cut a new spit for the chicken. It was best not to use yesterdays’ spit, even if washed, as bacteria might form in the grease cooked into the wood.

  Tía asked why she’d thrown away a good spit for a new one. Karen didn’t bother answering.

  On went the chicken, and the snake was hung next to the chicken to keep the flies away. Jay tended the fire throwing on occasional damp leaves for smoke, then filtered water with Lomara holding the bottles. She placed them on the fire to boil. Tía kept an eye on the chicken directing Jay to turn it when necessary.

  Karen found the boat well-grounded. The water had receded some. Their island was bigger. She took down the hammocks and checked on the grazing chickens, eyeballing the tree the raccoon had holed up in.

  “There’s ash all over the chicken,” Jay announced.

  “Ash is sterile, harmless,” said Karen.

  After stuffing themselves with snake the night before, they didn’t exactly devour the chicken. There was a little left. She put the remains in the bag with the snake. They’d actually have a bite of lunch today. Lomara dumped the bones on the island’s other end for the stranded raccoon.

  Now, to mend the boat. After drying the split seam, she duct-taped it inside and out. They’d still have to bail sometimes. Karen and Jay easily shoved the boat across the short expanse of mud to float it and they loaded everything in, tying it down. They stocked a supply of kindling and wood to start a hubcap fire without having to stop early. She placed one former jean pant leg-bag inside the other and stuffed green leaves between them, then carefully stowed their one egg inside.

  The sun was above the trees now. It would be another hot day. Tía would direct Lomara to fashion elephant ear leaf hats for them all. They provided more shade than baseball caps and protected the back of the neck. They were to be on the lookout for more caladiums along the shore.

  Karen had decided they needed spears and cut two suitably straight shafts, one-and-a-half inches in diameter and about six feet long. She’d work on them in the boat.

  They helped Tía into the boat and Karen carried a giggling Lomara over the mud. Shoving off, she rowed the short distance to the river’s channel where the current grabbed them.

  It was their second day on the river, their fourth on the run.

  »»•««

  The crew was in good spirits, Karen noted. That sounded like an entry in a ship’s log. It gave her an idea. Why not keep a log, a journal? She pulled out the remaining census forms and a marker pen and wrote the first day’s date on the back of a form. She’d catch them up to date. Why? She had a feeling she’d want to remember.

  Tía wanted to know what she was writing.

  “Nuestra historia.”—Our story.

  Tía nodded. “Eso es bueno. Asi podremos recordar.”

  “This is good. So we can remember,” she translated for Jay.

  Ahead, the river curved sharply to the left and she
steered the boat toward the outside of the curve hugging the right shore where the water would be deeper and the current faster. Beyond the curve the river widened out. A lake? As they drifted into the expanse of water a stronger current caught and pushed them to the left.

  Tía said matter of factually, “El Río Hauhau.”

  They’d reached the main river and were on their way to the sea and salvation, possibly.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Karen was ecstatic. They were really on their way now, on a real river leaving the little Rio Machuca behind. It was two-hundred feet across if an inch. Eddies swirled around them as the rivers merged. She thought their speed even picked up a tad. The water was a lighter brown and the banks contained the water although it appeared it had previously topped the banks and flooded the forest. A finned back broke the water ahead of them, promising fishing.

  “Fish, pez,” Karen shouted.

  Lomara clapped her hands.

  Karen judged it was mid-morning, maybe around nine.

  The forest was thick and dense with underbrush. The trees were not particularly high, but limited their visibility only to what lay on the immediate banks. They could pass by an entire village if it was hidden by a screen of trees.

  “Jay, keep your eyes open for a dock, boats pulled ashore, a footpath, or smoke.”

  “What for?”

  “Might be a village.”

  “I thought you said they had evacuated.”

  “Someone could have stayed, or we’ll find food or something we can use.”

  Lomara was dragging her fingertips across the water’s surface. Everything was so green it hurt one’s eyes. The jungle looked and smelled so alive.

  Karen resigned herself to a long slow trip on the winding river. Four days, six days, perhaps longer. Somewhere along the river she hoped there was a village. Tía said the men never mentioned one. Karen figured if they came down this far they probably hadn’t ventured down the Hauhau. They would have had to row against the current when they returned. Karen didn’t recall seeing villages when she checked out the area on Google Earth, but that didn’t mean much…she wasn’t looking for any. The only town she recalled was their destination on the coast. Tía had supplied her with a name—Puerto Cabezas.

  She started hauling on the oars to see now what speed they could make. It picked up, but as before, she couldn’t keep it up.

  It was doubtful they’d encounter any logjams on a river this big. There were no rocks here so she didn’t expect rapids. There wasn’t much debris either; floating limbs and uprooted trees were seen, but not many. But then, one never knew what lay ahead on any road.

  Karen guessed they were moving three miles an hour. If they got a fire going in the boat, using the hubcap, and restarted a banked fire at dawn, they could travel from dawn to dusk, about twelve hours. Maybe, optimistically, thirty miles a day. They had been some fifty miles inland, maybe more she guessed. She had no idea how many miles the curves and bends would add. She was guessing at least three times the distance. Five days minimum she thought, but maybe more. She’d been on longer backpacking and canoe trips. A lot could happen in five days, she reminded herself. It seemed strange though going someplace and not knowing exactly where it was or how long it would take to get there.

  »»•««

  The sun hung mid-sky. Time for a pit stop, thought Karen. Spying clumps of caladiums on the right bank, she announced they would stop and headed for them. The shore was too boggy to land, but Jay whacked off some of the big leaves for hats and extras to use as tableware.

  She worked the boat down the shore a few dozen yards and found a good landing. Jay jumped out and secured the towing strap around a tree. Karen helped Tía out and then Lomara. Then she passed the chicken bag with their heads poking out followed by the plastic bag with the leftover meat to Jay. They’d graze the chickens for even a short time as they weren’t getting enough to eat during their brief times ashore. They auto-pilot slept from dusk to dawn.

  Karen stepped ashore with a couple bottles of water and machete in-hand. Better safe than sorry. There were just too many things out here. They didn’t waste any time eating the lunchtime chicken, there wasn’t much left from breakfast. Jay cleaned out the chicken bag turning up another egg. Tía was going to have Lomara make the leaf hats, but Karen urged them back into the boat. She managed to communicate that the more time they spent on the water the faster they could get out of here.

  Karen noticed Tía appeared to be particularly uncomfortable, her eyes in blatant pain.

  “¿Qué le pasa, Tía?”

  “Mi brazo…” She cut it off as though she didn’t want to complain about her arm.

  Karen sat down beside her and unwrapped her left arm. From her shoulder to her hand much of her arm was purplish and swollen. Karen probed very gently with her finger at different points and Tía winced at each. It took over three seconds for color to return to where she’d poked. She felt Tía’s forehead and discovered a slight fever. She hadn’t brought the thermometer—a mistake.

  She didn’t know how to say ‘infected,’ but she thought Tía knew what it was. She took a chance and doubled the antibiotic. Maybe it was too much, maybe not enough. Tía needed serious antibiotics like penicillin.

  “Jay, Tía’s infection’s getting worse and unless these antibiotics kick in good, she could lose her arm or even her life. We need to get out of here as fast as possible.”

  The burden of her responsibility for these people suddenly grew heavier. She struggled to throw off a sense of failure, a sense of hopelessness. She didn’t know if the antibiotics could knock out Tía’s infection. Probably not. How much time did they have before it passed the treatable stage? Karen was scared. She couldn’t show it. She had to be strong.

  Shoving off, Karen rowed into the current.

  “Jay, it’s time for you to graduate from basic seaman to able seaman. Trade seats with me.”

  “What?”

  “Think you can try to row?”

  He glanced at her, then the oars. “Sure.”

  “We’ll see. Have a seat.”

  Gripping the oars, his first uncoordinated sweeps were out of sequence and one blade would dig too deep into the water as the other skipped across the surface throwing him off even more.

  “Not as easy as it looks, is it?”

  He only frowned.

  She knelt behind him placing her hands over his. “You’ve got to work them in unison and dig them deep, both blades to the same depth. Takes coordination.”

  He seemed tense and their closeness was jarring her too. Zigzagging down the river, he got angry with himself.

  “Concentrate on the rhythm. You’ll get it.” Sooner or later. “Change seats. I’ll show you.”

  She showed him how to sweep and dip the oars, pull and lift them out of the water, then feather them—turn their blades horizontally—as they were brought forward to be dipped vertically and pulled again. It took a little practice for him to get the moves right and pick up the rhythm. After less than half an hour of fishtailing down the river, he was able to keep a fairly straight course. He soon had it down and was pulling with a steady rhythm.

  “Not so bad,” he said with a new found confidence, forgetting is initial frustration.

  He’d pull for ten minutes and then rest for five or so before pulling again. It wasn’t much faster, but it all added up.

  “We’ll switch off every hour,” Karen said.

  Tía directed Lomara making their hats, and they did help against the burning sun. Karen pulled out the broken mirror and a white T-shirt to have ready in event a plane came over. She didn’t want to look at herself, but noticed her bruised jaw looked a deeper purple.

  “Sorry about that,” Jay whispered.

  “Forget it.”

  They were treated to the sight of an occasional monkey, too far to tell what kind, screeching from the trees. Tree limbs and other debris drifted down the river. Karen had to keep an eye open for logs and
so on ahead of them as Jay’s back was turned to what lay ahead.

  Karen started on her spears. Lomara watched with great interest. Karen had her take off her makeshift footwear. They’d be doing little walking and her feet and the sock-shoes needed drying out. In fact they all kicked off their shoes, with Lomara helping Tía.

  Karen laid the end of the spear’s shaft on the gunwale and trimmed a point with the machete. With the pocketknife she shaved a finer point. Her plan was to char-harden the point over the fire tonight. For good measure, she made a point on the other end.

  Considering the “spear,” she thought it was pretty lame. It’s only a stick with pointy ends. She needed a more consequential point, a spearhead. There were no pieces of metal, no rocks around here like flint. She looked in the bags and came up with the screwdriver. It had a flat-bladed six-inch shaft.

  On the second spear she shaved one side flat for six inches with the machete and taped the screwdriver’s handle to the flat using a lot of duct tape.

  Tonight she’d make some throwing sticks. She remembered a demonstration showing how accurately they could be thrown. With luck, a small animal or bird on the ground, facing away, could be hit and stunned.

  The miles and hours drifted by, slowly. There were short stretches of river where the surface was disturbed by rolling ripples. They appeared to be caused by piled tree trunks and stumps caught in the bottom silt. At lower water levels these would indeed be rapids.

  Karen reminded everyone to be on the lookout for signs of settlement. She had a fear of drifting past early salvation and being doomed to continue on down the endless river. When one has no idea of distance to a trip’s end, it seems all the slower.