Tears of the River

by Gordon L. Rottman

  “Jay, can you bail out the water? Lomara and I’ll cook up the fish.”

  Lomara kept the little hubcap fire going. On a seat, Karen, still woozy, cut the catfish’s head off, then the tail and spiked fins. Slitting it down the belly she gutted it. She’d glance up as she worked, looking for a landing site. They’d camp on the opposite shore from the village. She wasn’t taking chances on the devil dogs’ thirst for vengeance.

  Ahead and to the right was a grassy patch. Little underbrush lay beneath the crowding trees. Jay did a good job landing the boat and securing it. Karen staggered ashore, machete-armed, and completed her customary patrol.

  The catfish cooked on the license plate. While a little burnt for want of cooking oil, it was excellent. In the bushes she donned her now dry green tee and bra. Jay’s covert glances were getting annoying. At least he’s a normal guy, I guess.

  They dragged the Nuestra Esperanza partly ashore. That seemed a more fitting name than Huck Finn. With close examination she found two hairline-cracked hull seams. She dried and duct-taped them. Then she un-taped and wiggled out the plug, but only because she’d spotted some pine trees. Tía called them pinus caribaea —Carib pines. Karen scarped semi-dried tears of translucent yellow sap into a tin. Melting it on the fire, she added ash to thicken it. She cut two three-inch squares out of one of the pack’s nylon lining. Next she carefully shaved the splintered edges of the hole inside and out. With the sticky resin she glued one patch to the outside. From the inside she filled the hole with resin adding reinforcing nylon threads picked from the pack. Then she glued on the inner patch. In the morning when all was dry, she’d duct-tape it inside and out. She could have gone with only duct tape, but wanted a stronger patch.

  »»•««

  Karen lay exhausted in her hammock. A thought occurred. The moldy flour and cornmeal she’d found and not taken, she could have added water, rolled it into balls, fried them, and used them for fish bait. I’ve got to think smarter, she reprimanded herself.

  Jay was sitting beside the fire, doing something with a pocketknife while Lomara watched.

  Her drowsy mind commented, what a day, but don’t think about it.

  She jerked awake.

  “How do you say, a bird for you?” asked Jay.

  “Uh, Este pájaro es para usted. What are you talking about?” Her head felt mushy.

  He repeated it sort of. Kneeling beside Lomara, he fumbled through the phrase.

  Karen annunciated pájaro for him, “PAH-hah-roh.” She crawled out of her hammock and walked to the fire without stumbling too much.

  Smiling Lomara was holding a spread-winged wooden bird, as wide as her hand, which Jay had carved.

  She laid her hand on Jay’s shoulder. “That’s sweet of you.”

  “I just needed something to do.” Typical guy answer.

  “Still, that’s nice, and not a bad job.”

  “Thanks. An uncle taught me.”

  “There’s a Wood Carving Merit Badge too.”

  He laughed and Karen liked the sound.

  Back in the hammock, she let her mind drift. How many times had she heard girls say, “Be true to yourself.” There was a difference in simply believing something and believing in something. One can believe whatever she wants of herself, but to really believe in herself, she has to prove what she really was. Had she done that yet? The breeze rustling through the treetops numbed her mind into sleep.

  The dream found her chasing a pack of black dogs. It was exhilarating as they fled before her in panic, barking and yelping warnings to each other. She screamed like a banshee terrorizing them. The pack of mongrels came to a broad river, trapping them between its dark waters and the terror chasing them, her. “You don’t know fear yet,” she screeched in a voice not her own. Then they turned on her.

  »»•««

  The hazy dawn revealed a mist-shrouded river; day six on the río.

  Lomara had calmed down after Karen’s thrashing, screaming awaking in the early hours. Karen’s head still throbbed and any quick moves sent waves of pain though her making her wobbly and nauseous. The back of her head hurt too, where it had cracked onto the floor. She felt crusted blood back there.

  She urged the fire to life so they could scramble their three eggs in the sand-scoured hubcap. There were only a few bites each and two Fig Newtons apiece, the last of them. The hot tea perked them up. Honey would be good, but…

  Tía’s arm was more swollen and her fever was up again. Karen gave the woman more antibiotics. She was concerned; the infection seemed to be gaining again. It heightened her sense of urgency and the need to get back on the river.

  As Jay loaded the boat, Karen cut a couple of straight saplings of the hardest, heaviest wood she could find. She had forgotten about making throwing sticks with all the excitement and distractions.

  In her backpack she discovered the forgotten doll. It was a simple homemade affair of old stained sheeting stuffed with rags. Its hair was strands of black yarn and little black eyes, a nose, and mouth were stitched on the face. One arm was missing.

  Lomara had taken it and clung to it hugging it to her cheek, as though she’d found her lost sister. Karen choked back her feelings.

  “She only has one arm, sister,” Lomara said, “like Tía.”

  This caused a startled look on Tía’s face, two little creases forming between her eyes.

  Karen told her she’d fix the doll’s arm just like they would soon fix Tía’s.

  Later in the day Karen fashioned an arm from leftover T-shirt cloth and stitched it on with a suture needle. She even added black, sutured eyebrows.

  In the ship’s log she jotted down the previous day’s many events. The river was wider, maybe three hundred feet. She’d have to write the story of the dogs later. She was still rattled. Instead she simply wrote across a blank page top, The Evil Black Beady Eyed Vampire Sea Monster Devil Dogs from Hell Misadventure. Even if she didn’t write anything more, that summed up her impressions. She headed a blank page with, My Daring Rescue of Jay from the Clutches of the Others. That story she jotted down, including Jay’s payback rescue of herself.

  She made the long procrastinated throwing sticks. The hardwood saplings she’d cut were heavy, which was necessary for them to be effective. With her multi-tool saw she cut them into eighteen-inch lengths and they were about an inch-and-a-half in diameter. Then she shaved them smooth off the nubs where twigs had grown.

  This was an ancient hunting weapon, from which boomerangs evolved. Probably came right after the rock as a weapon. The idea was to sneak up close to a small animal. You threw it with a spin. With practice they were quite accurate and would stun or kill the animal. She made six and arranged them in her pack with the ends sticking out. All she had to do was reach over her left shoulder.

  The Venturing Scouts had seen a demonstration of ancient hunting weapons and she’d made one at home. She was surprised how easy it was to use as she practiced on a tin can. Maybe tonight she could make some practice throws and go on a short hunting expedition at dawn.

  Row and drift, row and drift and bail. She and Jay worked in shifts. Because of the logjam behind them, little flotsam was encountered.

  Lomara sang her songs to her doll. She named it Paloma—Dove—because they had been watching doves splash in the water when Karen had all but flown over the embankment and into the boat. She said Jay’s carved bird was a dove. Tía sang songs to Paloma too, as Lomara brushed the woman’s hair.

  Lomara asked Karen the same frequent questions. “¿Podemos salir de aqui, Hermana?”

  “Si, yo te voy a sacar de aquí.”—Yes, I will get you out of here.

  Lunch was a last handful of stale trail mix for each.

  Last night’s fish dinner set Karen to thinking on how to catch more. They wouldn’t have much luck with a hook and line from the boat. She might fashion a hook from a curved suture needle and could make a lure from something shiny or use leftovers from tonight’s planned chicken dinner as bai
t. A fish trap was a possibility, but the cone-shaped traps made of long sticks took time to build. They’d have to stop early. Nonetheless, they continued to check stream mouths for entrapment pools. No joy there.

  Karen thought about conserving the chickens, to do without tonight. They weren’t doing too well though. Their prolonged confinement in the bag and limited grazing had weakened them. Chicken tonight, she decided. A fish trap though. While thinking of the fish trapped in the pool, she recalled a prehistoric trap, quick to build. She couldn’t dig a pool, but she could make a corral, so to speak. She had only seen it in a book.

  This was their sixth day on the Hauhau. How much farther do we have to go, one day, two, more? It has to end sometime. In the ship’s log she wrote, Everything ends. Doesn’t it?

  They’d covered a lot of miles today without interruption. Sometimes she wanted to talk to Jay, but she was so tired. She knew everyone was hungry, all the time. Even soon after eating their meager meals.

  A good campsite was found on the north bank, a little glade near a stream with reasonably clear water. A game trail edged the glade and ran to the stream spotted with deer and raccoon tracks and others she didn’t know. There would be little hope of bagging a vigilant deer, she thought. They’re too cautious, too flighty.

  As Jay and Lomara set up camp, Karen quickly cut four-dozen yard-long sticks. The clear stream was only a broad step across. She thrust the sticks deep into the mud making a fence across the stream, the sticks a finger apart. Several feet upstream, she built another fence in a “V” shape pointing downstream. At the “V’s” point she left a three-inch opening. She wondered if ancient ancestors hadn’t reasoned out the problem in a similar manner. The fish swimming downstream would enter the gate and then couldn’t find their way out. In the morning the trap might contain more fish than they could bake. She should have thought of this earlier.

  She settled in her hammock with Lomara. The fire died early. She hoped to be spared frustration dreams, or being chased, or being alone. Karen knew everyone always dreamed, but sometimes her mind allowed her a rest and she’d not recall any.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Her dream found her lying in a muddy ditch in a pitch black forest. Something big and dark and wicked was coming down the road seeking her scent. She was hunted. When she awoke, the fear made her heart ache. She hadn’t heard her own scream, but she sensed the echo of a shouted, “Mom!”

  The mosquitoes were worse. The bug spray kept some away, but their insistent buzzing was irritating and they’d all suffered bites.

  Karen eased out of the hammock trying not to disturb Lomara. The girl muttered and opened her eyes. Karen told her she was going hunting and would not be far. “Ahorita vengo.”—I’ll be back. The girl drifted off clutching Paloma.

  It was still dark, only a faint glow on the eastern horizon. She stoked the fire. The smoke annoyed mosquitoes. It would also guide her back. In such dense vegetation it was easy to become disoriented. Karen slung on her pack with the throwing sticks. She’d taken practice throws at a tree yesterday and could hit within inches of a knothole at forty feet.

  She held the flashlight at different angles until she found the right one to penetrate the reflecting water in the fish trap. The “V” fence was chocked with leaves. There were no frenzied swirls. Staring, she understood. It was rain runoff, not a year-round running stream. No fish would be swimming down this creek. That ancient ancestor, he’d probably had the smarts to figure that out and not waste his time. She criticized herself severely, but another lesson learned she reminded herself.

  Karen crept quietly up the game trail with a stick held upright to clear spider webs. A hundred paces from the camp she came upon a clearing and situated herself on its edge. She made sure she had clearance in the brush to throw. The air was dead. It wouldn’t carry her scent. She knew the odds were against a critter happening along, but animals moved in the morning seeking water and foraging—maybe. Hunters always talked about animals being scared off by human scent and activity, but she’d had many encounters of the closest kind with animals blundering into her and vice versa. They did just as dumb things as humans and were not always as alert as one expects.

  Mosquitoes buzzed in the gray-green pre-dawn light. It was darker than usual, hazy; it must be overcast. Time passed. Before long the others would be up, making noise. That would scare off any prowling critters. As soon as she heard the crew stirring she’d go back. She should have told them last night to be quiet when they rose…and a twig snapped. Karen froze, if one could do that in this stifling hot, dead air.

  There were rustling noises in the brush coming from the clearing’s far side. It increased, scrabbling noises, something pushing through the brush, and more than one. More feint leaf-crackling sounds. A lot more. They were all over. Karen suppressed the desire to back away or simply shout and set whatever they were to running. But the crew needed food. She’d wait and see. Really dangerous animals hunted alone. Herding animals were vegetarians, harmless and easy to spook, but the thought didn’t still her hammering heart.

  The rustling grew louder. Some were behind her. She had to fight to keep from shouting. A dark shape materialized on the trail, emerging out of the gloom and blackness. It was bigger than she liked. There were odd rainforest mammals such as pacas, tayras, coatis, and others she wasn’t familiar with.

  A dark shapeless four-legged something took form. She didn’t know what it was. No matter, if it was on four feet they could eat it. She was kneeling, her arm poised to throw with everything she had. She’d once read if your heart is strong, your thoughts are pure, your throw will be true, and the strike lethal…or some such Zen BS. Taking a breath, she flung giving it her all and heard the whisper of the spinning stick.

  Crack!

  There was a momentary sense of fulfillment, her thoughts had been pure, but then the shape came at her with a high-pitched scream faster than the devil dogs. Dark shapes were darting in all directions crashing through the brush with squealing cries. Blood-chilled, she stood, ducked behind a tree, grabbed another stick. Why hadn’t she brought the spear? A streamlined pig-thing came at her, she threw the stick, missed, dodged.

  A bigger one charged with a grunting squeal and her legs were cut out from under her, her head and shoulder hitting the tree. She tried to stand and her right leg crumpled taking her to the ground; no pain. Not yet anyway. It all happened so fast she didn’t have time to get scared.

  Another darted in. All she saw were tiny angry eyes, bristling hair and tusks, and smelled a skunk-like musk. She rolled as it rocketed over, trampling her.

  Karen pulled herself to her feet, took three adrenaline-fired running steps before her leg collapsed, slammed into another tree with a popping noise in her head, and fell into the mud.

  The piercing wave of squeals rolled on leaving her behind like a dazed, thrown surfer in the ocean. Screams and shouts came from the camp and the horrible squealing swelled. “Oh no, no.” There was splashing water and the terrifying sounds subsided. She heard Tía crying.

  “No, please, no,” she gasped. “What have I done?” On hands and knees she tried to rise and her leg gave way again. It felt like it had been torn loose. Rolling onto her side she gripped it above the knee ignoring her muddy hands. She felt ripped jeans and a hot bloody gash. There was too much blood.

  Tía yelled, “¡Karena!”

  Unable to pull herself to her feet and fighting to keep from crying, Karen started down the muddy trail on hands and knee, dragging her burning, bloody leg.

  The sky was lighter, but the jungle floor was deep in shadow. Karen didn’t want to look at her leg. What she had done endangered everyone else. And now she was hurt. Please don’t let them be hurt, she pleaded. It was a long way back through the mud and tangled roots snaking across the trail.

  She eyed the fire’s flickering glow. Tía shouted again, “¡Karena!”

  “Tía, yo me voy. Un momento.”

  Karen could see only shapes
on the ground ahead. No one was standing. Jay sat with his back to the fire, a black silhouette. Tía leaned against a tree, partly facing the fire illuminating her anguished face. Lomara was not to be seen. Karen’s heart cried as she pulled forward, grabbing handfuls of mud.

  Karen frantically crawled into the fire glow’s circle, “¡Lomara!”

  “¡Ella está lastimada, Karena!” —She is hurt!

  Then Karen saw the girl, held tenderly in Jay’s arms, his face in agony. Lomara hung limply like the ragdoll Karen had given her so long ago.

  Jay looked at Karen with pleading eyes, one of the few times he’d shown a need for her help. “Can you do something?”

  “Is she breathing?” Karen pulled herself to them. Tía was saying something about Karen being hurt, the anxiety in her voice frantic. Karen ignored her, she had only one concern. Rolling into a sitting position and wiping her muddy hands on the dewy grass, Karen took Lomara from Jay.

  “¡La linterna!”—The flashlight! she shouted. Jay switched it on and Karen was staring into a limp white face. “Oh no!” Lomara felt like Karen’s Spaniel, Scruffy, when she’d picked him up off the street in another world, limp and lifeless.

  She placed her hand over Lomara’s heart, nothing. Pulse, her mind screamed. Where? Neck, wrist? She felt nothing. CPR. Try and remember the sequence. Her mind was fighting her, trying to keep her from remembering. The class, given by the Cy-Fair Fire Department to the Scouts, she could only remember Cheyenne and herself giggling self-consciously as they practiced on the resurrection manikin. Cheyenne pretended it was heart-throb—if he had one—Andrew Arrow, the only boy in the blood-thirsting Arrow family inhabiting Vampire Alley. Karen kept it to herself, but she’d pretended it was the not quite as awesome David Knolls in English class. Now such trivial crap! Think! She demanded.

  She laid the girl on the ground. Her skin felt cold and clammy. She placed the back of her hand below Lomara’s nose. She felt nothing. “No, NO!” One hand over the other. No, first clear the airway, she remembered. She bent Lomara’s head back; her slack mouth hung open, and thrust in two fingers to sweep out a gob of mucus and salvia. Okay, press my hands together on her chest, where? Two fingers below something. No, first breathe into her. She breathed into Lomar’s mouth while pressing her jaws open between thumb and forefinger. It was coming back. Lomara exhaled! No! It’s only me, blowing air through her. Karen pinched Lomara’s nose shut. She breathed into the girl’s cold lips. She blew three times. The chest pumping she remembered was more important. Where? At the bottom of the ribcage. Five times, not too hard with a fragile child. She sharply pressed, counting out loud. Pinch the nose, breathe into her, the breath of life she so sincerely hoped. “One-two-three-four-five,” she counted, breathe into her mouth. “One-two-three-four-five, breathe. Wake up, baby. Wake up!”