Survival Instinct

by Rachelle Mccalla

  “Can I help you?”

  “I think it would be easier if I just did it myself.”

  Abby stood back as he hoisted the boat up over his shoulders and above his head.

  “Have you got it? Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

  “I’m fine.” Scott took a few awkward steps toward the dock, then quickly found his rhythm and increased his pace. “It’s much easier this way,” he explained, his voice only slightly strained from effort, “and I’m afraid you’re enough shorter than I am that it would make it more difficult if we both carried it than if I just do it by myself. Besides, you’ll need to save your arm strength for paddling.”

  Abby understood his reasoning, but she couldn’t help thinking he was carrying a heavier burden than he needed to. Still, she had to admit he was moving much faster with the canoe on his own than when she’d been trying to help him carry it.

  Marilyn and Mitch pulled in their poles as Scott and Abby approached.

  “You found a boat?” Marilyn asked with excitement.

  Mitch looked wary. “Will that thing even float? It looks like it’s a hundred years old.”

  “Look at it this way, Mitch,” Scott huffed once he’d lowered the canoe onto the soft sand. “If the canoe doesn’t get us to the next island, then I can try your idea of swimming for it.”

  At the incredulous expression on Mitch’s face, Abby couldn’t resist chiming in. “Really, the canoe only has to get us halfway there,” she explained in a mock-serious voice. “Once we get within a mile of the island, we can swim for it.”

  “Oh, I think the water is awfully cold for that.” Marilyn shuddered.

  Abby knew she was right, but she didn’t amend her statement. If anything happened to them in the water, Marilyn would be less concerned if she thought Abby and Scott had been prepared to swim for it.

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere in that thing,” Mitch insisted.

  “I don’t expect you to,” Scott explained. “Abby and I are just going to take it over to Rocky Island. There’s a Park Ranger stationed there, and he can call for help to come and get you two. This canoe is really only meant to hold two people, and I’d rather not have Mom out on the lake if we have to swim for it after all.” He announced their plans with an air of finality, and then scooted the canoe into the water next to the dock.

  “Abby, do you have any more of that floss to tie our bucket to the canoe?” he asked. “I don’t want to lose it once we get out on the lake.”

  “I used it all on the fishing poles,” Abby called after him. The floss had been a small sample from her dentist she hadn’t bothered to take out of her purse after her last appointment.

  Marilyn handed Abby the two fishing poles. “Here. We won’t need these anymore.”

  The waxed floss had already started unraveling from the knots she’d used to tie the earring lures in place. Abby quickly slid the slick string back and pulled the earrings free. “You’ll want these back,” she said, handing them over.

  “No, really.” Marilyn crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing her shoulders as though to comfort herself. “I’d rather not.”

  Unsure whether the woman’s impulse had to do with regret at leaving the other gems aboard the Helene, or if Marilyn simply didn’t want part of her jewelry without the rest, Abby decided not to push her, given her emotionally fragile state. She shoved the earrings deep into her back pocket for safekeeping, and realized at the same time she was acquiring quite a bit of jewelry in her pockets. After all, she still had the ring in the pocket at her hip, its tiny prick a sharp reminder of all that still lay before her.

  Scott stepped over and gave his mother a hug goodbye before tying the bucket to a cross brace near the rear of the canoe. “Okay, let’s see if she’ll hold us.”

  Abby relented to being lowered in with Scott’s help. He’d pulled the canoe to the end of the dock where the water was deepest, and she felt the boat dip precariously with her weight. But as she crouched at her place toward the front of the canoe, the mad rocking eased quickly. “Your turn,” she called back to Scott.

  There were no seats, so she sat on her knees and grabbed the sides while Scott lowered himself gingerly into place at the rear of the boat. Then he tossed a paddle to her. “Let’s see what she can do.”

  They paddled free of the dock, gliding along easily as they moved into open water. Abby breathed deeply of the sea-scented air and tried to tell herself to enjoy their excursion. After all, when would she have an opportunity like this again? She was canoeing with Scott Frasier, something she’d have only dreamed about doing years before. But when she let out a shaky breath and dipped her paddle in the water again, she found she couldn’t fight back her fear over the great risk they were taking.

  “What do you think?” she asked, looking back and seeing no water in the bottom of the boat. “Does she look seaworthy?”

  “I’d say so. And it occurred to me that we should probably make tracks before she changes her mind, don’t you think? No point paddling around in the shallows and waiting for her to spring a leak.”

  Abby took a deep breath, her silent prayer little more than a mantra. I will not fear, for Thou art with me. She repeated the lines from the twenty-third Psalm over and over in her head and tried her best to believe them. “Okay,” she agreed, digging deep with her paddle and feeling the canoe glide forward smoothly as a result. “Let’s aim for the south end of Rocky. These waves are going to try to push us out to sea, and I’d like to do whatever I can to avoid that.”

  “Agreed. Pull hard on the left,” Scott instructed, then shouted a goodbye to his mother, who waved before crossing her arms and hugging herself again.

  For the next several minutes they paddled in relative silence, breaking the stillness only with the occasional, “keep her steady,” or “harder on the left, I think we’re drifting.” But as they moved farther out from the protection of Devil’s Island, the wind picked up and the waves began to get higher, lapping ever closer to the rim of the boat. At the same time, the lake seemed intent on moving them straight north, out into the open sea, and Abby found herself exerting more effort in keeping them steered in the right direction than she did in moving them forward at all.

  “How are we doing?” she called back, glancing over her shoulder just long enough to see the autumn-clad form of Devil’s Island looming behind them much closer than she’d have liked.

  “We’re making headway. Slow but steady. How are your arms holding up?”

  “I’m doing fine. I’ll probably be sore tomorrow, though. How are your arms? You already carried this canoe down the hill-you’ve got to be getting tired.”

  “I’m fine. I haven’t gone as soft as Mitch would like you to believe.”

  Abby heard the strain behind his lighthearted words, and she dug a little deeper with her paddle, wincing as the seasoned wood moved against the skin of her palms where blisters had already begun to form. She tried to adjust her grip to ease the pain, but with the next dig, she still felt it. Rather than focus on her pain, she resolved to keep her eyes on their elusively distant goal.

  “Harder on the left if you can,” Scott called from behind her. His voice rose in pitch, his tension more obvious now. The waves splashed higher, jolting their boat and limiting their progress, sending the fragile craft rocking unsteadily. Abby wished she could find the rhythm of the waves and move with the water, but she feared the only way to do that would be to go with the direction of the waves and head out to sea. And there was no way she was going to intentionally head out to sea.

  “Steady now. If you can, I want you to paddle with smaller, faster motions for a minute here while I try to bail out some of this water.”

  Water? Abby looked behind her and saw five or six inches of water pooled just beyond the toes of her boots, hampering their progress and holding them lower, inviting more water to slosh in. She could feel the rush of adrenaline hit her veins as she did her best to follow Scott’s instructions.
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br />   Without the second paddler, the boat nearly stilled on the lake. Abby wondered if they were even moving forward at all. “How far do you think we’ve gone?” she called behind her. “Are we halfway yet?”

  She could hear Scott dumping water into the lake-either that, or it was the splash of water coming in over the side of the canoe. Since they were headed nearly straight south, the westward-moving waves slapped them square on the side, spilling into the boat as often as not. Abby bent her head around and looked behind her.

  Scott’s face grimaced with pain as he plucked up his paddle and dug deep, propelling the little boat forward-by feet now instead of inches. “We’re moving forward,” he grunted, “we’re not turning back now.”

  But Devil’s Island still loomed closer than Rocky. Abby set her jaw and paddled harder. Scott was right. They weren’t going to turn back. There was nothing for them back there, and they were just as likely to run into trouble on their way back as forward. They might not be any closer to Rocky than Devil’s, but somewhere along the line, they’d passed the point of no return.

  The wind and waves mounted higher against them. When Abby looked to the sky, she realized the gray clouds had grown dark and threatening, and the brisk breeze they’d been experiencing all day had blown up a gale that threatened to propel them into the open sea. As the boat lurched in the raucous waves, Abby’s stomach somersaulted up her throat.

  Water splashed into the boat in waves instead of rivulets. The puddle in their vessel grew and the tiny craft settled deeper into the lake, its sides lower, an easier target for the surf that seemed intent on swamping them. Abby paddled in near-frantic terror, but still she felt the boat stall whenever Scott paused to bail out the water.

  Slowly they crept forward. As they drew closer to Rocky Island, Abby could see the waves sending up spray as they smacked against the huge boulders that gave Rocky Island its name. The thought hit her like a slap of cold lake water. Somehow, they’d have to navigate through the dangerous rocks in order to get to the island.

  The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Abby recited the words in her head, finding a rhythm with them, digging deep with her paddle and forcing herself to ignore the blisters growing on her palms. She wished she’d thought to tie her paddle to the boat, but it was too late now, and she wasn’t about to shift her hands too much for fear of losing her oar to the lake.

  The wind ripped the hood from her head and tore her hair free from the braid where she’d bound it, sending long strands of her dark locks flinging to her face, covering her eyes. She shook them free, only to have them flung at her again.

  “I’m going to bail again,” Scott called, and Abby switched her paddling pattern, feeling the muscles in her shoulders tighten into knots with the quicker, shallow movements.

  It seemed like an eternity later when he shouted to her again. “Okay, dig deep now. We’re getting closer. We’re really getting closer.”

  And they were. Already Abby could see massive red stones hiding under the surface of the clear water, and had felt the thin underside of the boat bump against them more than once as the waves peeled back, revealing the menacing boulders lying in wait to tip them, or to smash their tiny boat to bits.

  “Paddle harder. Paddle harder,” Scott called, as Abby’s strength sagged and fat tears rolled down her cheeks from the pain in her shoulders and hands. She had to paddle harder. She didn’t have a choice. They were still several hundred yards from shore.

  The bumps came more frequently now. At any time, they could hit a rock hard enough to crack a massive hole in their boat. Abby kept praying, kept digging, and nearly screamed when she felt the numbing water slosh against her legs.

  She looked back. The middle of the canoe held nearly a foot of water! “Don’t you want to bail?” she nearly screamed, as the wind ripped the words from her mouth and carried them away. The sky had grown more sinister, the tempest violent.

  “Too late for that now. We’re almost there. Just dig!”

  Abby dug, tears spilling unchecked down her cheeks, mixing with the sea spray and the waves. The water sloshed higher, clenching its frozen fingers around her legs, sending searing pain through her bones from the fierce cold. The boat was so low in the water. So low, and so cold.

  The red domes of the boulders poked their moss-streaked heads from the water like vicious trolls intent on sinking them. As each wave pulled back, another menacing boulder would leer up at them before the next wave sent them sloshing over its skull, the flexible birch yielding to the pressure, nearly folding, threatening to snap.

  Three hundred yards. Two hundred. Abby could see the trees, the red bluffs and the rocky shore, before the wind whipped her hair into her eyes, blocking her view, blinding her to anything but the ice-cold water and the fear.

  She never saw the boulder that tipped them. All she knew was that one moment, her muscles were in tight knots of effort, and the next, her whole body was thrown into the frigid lake and the water closed over her head.

  FOUR

  Instantly numb shock gripped her. It was all Abby could do to struggle upward, willing her frozen limbs to move against the churning waters, her face straining for the surface, seeking light, seeking air. She felt something move against her back and in her confusion, didn’t recognize Scott’s arms until he’d lifted her head and shoulders above the waves.

  The brush of his hands felt foreign as he pulled the hair back from her face. Abby watched his mouth open and close. He was shouting something, but she couldn’t hear any words. The sky blurred, the world tilted, then her ears started to work again, and she heard him.

  “Run! You’ve got to get moving or you’ll freeze to death. Run, Abby! Come on, we’ve got to get moving.”

  She didn’t know how she made her legs move forward. She could hardly feel her feet as they slipped and slid across the submerged boulders, angry spears of pain the only reminder that she had feet at all. Scott’s arm held her steady, lifting her, pulling her, his voice constantly urging her on. “Move, Abby, you’ve got to keep moving.”

  They stumbled forward, her stiff fingers no help as they grasped at seaweed, her shins and legs knocking against the rocks, falling, bruising, rising again. And always, Scott’s voice in her ear, “Keep going, Abby, you can do it, we’re getting there, up you go, keep moving.”

  Then the water reached only to her waist and she moved more freely without the bashing waves to push her down. She stumbled onward, desperate to get out of the lake and away from the sneaky boulders that tripped her up and bruised her frozen muscles.

  Soon the waves slammed in impotent fury against their feet, and then they were free of the sea. Abby’s hiking boots were deadweights, her feet leaden blocks, as she scrambled forward up the jagged coast toward the woods.

  “Keep running, keep moving,” Scott urged her on. “Which way is it to the Ranger’s house?”

  Abby looked up and down, her mind slowly processing their position. “East,” her voice slurred as her tongue froze in her mouth. She pointed, watching her hand as though it belonged to someone else, unable to feel anything more than the prickles of pain her movement prompted. “That way. We’ll come to a road, it’s at the end of the road. East. No, north.” She moved her hand. “That way.”

  “Okay, let’s keep going. You’ve got to keep moving.”

  Abby tried. The twenty-third Psalm was stuck in her head, running on constant replay, and her heart yearned for the still waters, the green pastures, anything but these deeply shadowed woods and these winds, which whipped through the dying autumn trees, flinging the last flaming leaves to the ground with fury and sending them scrambling across the forest floor.

  She moved forward, willing her body to run, straining against the bile that rose in her throat and burned her lungs. Rocks and branches leaped up from nowhere in the pathless woods, tripping her, slamming against her with jarring force. Only Scott’s strong arm around her kept her from falling face-first into the mud.

  “Come
on, Abby. Can you move faster? We’ve got to keep going.” His voice echoed in her ears, caught in her head, tangled with the Psalm and the pain. Wasn’t she moving? She told her body to move but she couldn’t feel it anymore, couldn’t feel anything but the cold and the heaviness of her sodden clothes that hung from her body and dragged her down.

  “Abby?” Scott’s hands were on her face, his eyes peering into hers with concern. She wanted to smile, to tell him she was okay. She opened her mouth. No words came out.

  Scott snapped his fingers near her face. She was vaguely aware of the motion, the sound, but she didn’t flinch. She couldn’t.

  “Abby!” His voice grow more insistent. “Can you hear me? Come on, Abby!”

  She looked at him, begging him with her eyes, wanting to cry out for help. He seemed to be so far away, as though she was stuck at the bottom of a deep pit looking up at him.

  And then his lips were on hers, warm lips, stealing the cold breath away and melting the frozenness that gripped her. When he pulled away, she smiled drowsily and his face came into focus.

  “Can you go on?”

  Her head felt heavy as she nodded, and she scrambled forward, leaning most of her weight on him, unsure how much she actually propelled herself forward and how much he simply carried her.

  After tripping and stumbling so many times, she hardly noticed falling over a large branch until her face planted hard against the cold earth. The air whooshed from her lungs and she lay still for one long moment before she gathered the strength to inhale.

  Scott lifted her again. His breath felt warm against her cheek. “I’m going to carry you,” he explained as he hoisted her into his arms. Abby didn’t protest, but held on as tightly as her frozen hands could manage. They lurched together as he moved across the uneven ground, and she burrowed her face against his strong shoulder, thrilling at the feel of his warmth against her cheek. Her last conscious thought was of green pastures.