Ruthless River

by Holly Fitzgerald

“Here we are again,” I announced as the Pink Palace caught the current in the center of the river, “completely on our own.”

  “Well, Hol, you heard the aduana. It’s a straight run to Riberalta.”

  I didn’t know if his confidence was real or bravado, but I wanted to believe him. I lifted my face toward the sun and felt the air brush my cheeks. As we flew over the waves, water sprayed up between the logs, cooling our legs. Although we couldn’t see below the surface of the murky brown water, we knew it was deep. Our pole never touched bottom. We were a mile or more from either bank, too far out to worry about jungle animals. Jagged-edged logs and debris sped past us. Fitz said we should not be concerned because the Pink Palace was much bigger than any of them.

  Now safe from the Peruvian border guards, we decided to check our ransacked boxes. Our machete was missing.

  “It would be worth a lot to someone out here,” I said, reaching for canned sardines that were hiding behind a box.

  “Let’s hope we don’t need it,” Fitz said.

  That night I slept poorly, worrying about the many loose logs in the river that might strike us in the dark. I also couldn’t stop thinking about the frightening guards and what they might have done.

  Chapter 11

  Flying Free

  FEBRUARY 18

  For the next three days and two nights the river carried us through luxuriant rain forest. River songs ran through my head. Especially “Moon River, off to see the world—there’s such a lot of world to see…” This was us. Here we were!

  By the third day I was dancing on the logs and singing “Proud Mary.” “Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ on the riverrrrr…”

  Fitz looked up from his paperback. “This is what kids dream about.” He shoved the book into the back pocket of his jeans, then reached for my hand to steady me.

  The sweet scent of flowers floated past me, inviting me to daydream of Scheherazade, of princes and princesses in foreign lands.

  “You’re beautiful,” Fitz whispered.

  “You’re handsome.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  I leapt toward him, the heat of my skin touching his. He embraced me, his mouth making me quiver. We held hands, watching the distant jungle glide by. The silence was interrupted by one lone caw from far out in the lowlands. The wide span of water picked up the color of the purple sky. A shadow crossed the raft; I looked up to see a wispy cloud.

  Fitz pushed his hat back, his curls spilling out. The broad rim’s shade moved off his face to show his sunlit smile, his white teeth, his mouth moving toward mine again. Closing my eyes at the touch of his lips, I surrendered to the strength of his arms around me.

  —

  In the afternoon, I tried to write in my journal, but the mesmerizing scenery made it too difficult to concentrate. I retrieved Papillon from the row of secondhand paperbacks in the tent. Even that book couldn’t keep my attention. The canopy of trees along the banks of the Madre was embedded in what looked like the red-orange earth of Georgia. Some lone bare trees stood out, branches curled to the sky, green horizontal plumes at their tips. They looked like elegant umbrellas. Umbrella trees, I called them, promising myself to learn their real names someday.

  Watching them go by, I broke into “Proud Mary” again, standing so that I could swing to the beat, careful to watch my step. “Rollin’, rollin’…,” I burst out as I danced, my hair following my head’s movements.

  Fitz laughed. “You’re crazy!”

  “Dance with me.”

  “I’ll fall on my ass.”

  “No you won’t.” I grabbed his hand.

  “Well, I’ll dance a slow dance with you. ‘Michael, Row the Boat Ashore.’ ”

  He gave a half smile but didn’t budge. Maybe he wasn’t at ease dancing, although he’d never said so, perhaps because he knew I enjoyed it so much. He slowly got to his feet.

  “It'll be fun,” I encouraged. His eyes laughed as he slipped his right arm around my waist, his left hand in mine. Our hats clunked against each other. We took them off and placed the paddle on them so they wouldn’t blow away. Fitz began to hum and sway with me. I dropped my head on his chest, against the soft cotton of his T-shirt. Bliss, I thought. I wanted to tell Fitz, but I didn’t dare spoil the moment with words.

  When we stopped dancing Fitz gave me a short bow before we sat down. His bare feet were like mine, molded into the shape of the tops of the logs. I reached out to rub his, but being ticklish as hell he pulled them away.

  Just then a breeze swirled a flight of butterflies toward the drifting raft. Pure white against the amethyst sky. One, two, three…seven of them, dancing, twirling up and down, flirting merrily in the sun. They hovered above us. Seven pairs of opal wings dropped soundlessly upon me, landing one at a time on my arms and hands and shoulders.

  “Look, Fitz,” I mouthed, eyeing my covering of butterflies, a necklace of pearls.

  “Bejeweled by nature…,” my poet replied.

  I sat still, beguiled by wings opening and closing, resting on my limbs. My arms began to ache.

  “I have to move,” I finally whispered, sorry for us as well as the butterflies.

  Ever so slightly I adjusted my elbow. They took off. Our eyes followed them until they were specks.

  Fitz pulled me close. He’d shaved, so his skin was smooth as a plum. I melted like chocolate, but when we lay down on the raft my back slipped and pinched between two gnarly balsas, the river spitting up between them. “I wish we had a cushion.”

  Fitz held me around my shoulders, his arms wedged between me and the raft, his knees likely aching on top of the uneven logs.

  “I don’t think romance on balsa logs is that great,” I grumbled.

  “They’re ridiculous!” Fitz took my hand and led me to the tent.

  The silky sleeping bag and the tent’s platform were the Ritz-Carlton compared to outside.

  Chapter 12

  The Storm

  We slept soundly during our fourth night on the river, trusting the Madre to carry us safely through the darkness, just as she had on previous nights. We’d become used to her soft movement.

  I dreamt I was riding a merry-go-round, smoothly undulating up and down on the wooden horse, when abruptly the carousel’s screws loosened. It spun high into the air then plummeted downward. I woke to the raft in a tailspin. Ernesto had warned us not to let the raft spin. It was too late. Thunder and lightning were right on top of us. “Fitz!” I yelled, yanking his shoulder as lightning flashed through the plastic tent, like giant floodlights.

  He didn’t wake up. “Fitz!”

  “What?” he mumbled.

  “A storm! It’s HUGE!”

  Cracking thunder muffled the sound of my voice. The raft rocked and continued to spin wildly, lifted then pounded hard on the waves again.

  “Whoa!” Fitz yelled. “What the hell is happening?”

  “Storm!” I shrieked over the thunder.

  “Shit!”

  Bolts of lightning illuminated the tent enough for me to see Fitz inching forward on his stomach to the door flap, a foot from our sleeping bag. He pushed himself up onto his knees then pulled back the flap to stare into the roiling night. His tall frame swayed as he hung on to the door.

  “Jesus!” he yelled toward me. “I can’t see anything!”

  “Fitz, get inside! It’s too dangerous!”

  If he fell in, I’d never find him in the dark. Just then something slammed the bow, pulling the raft downward.

  “Holly, watch out!”

  I dropped my head, hearing riiiiiiiiip through the pink plastic wall.

  “My God,” Fitz screamed. “Holly, Holly!”

  The ripping sound ceased as the motion of the raft stilled. My heart pounded in the darkness as I lay stomach down, silent, not daring to move. Rain pelted through an apparent hole in the tent. “Fitz?” I tried to raise my head but something jabbed me, held me down. The raft was tipped forward with the new weight.

&nb
sp; “Jesus, Holly! Are you all right?” Fitz’s voice hollered out of the night. “That goddamned tree trunk flew right in here. I thought, my God, your head…” His voice trembled as he moved toward me.

  “Oh, Fitz,” I said, still stunned. “I thought you’d gone over…” I let out a small sob.

  “Baby, I got thrown forward, but I held on.”

  “Thank goodness…Fitz, I can’t move.”

  He was next to me now, his hand feeling my scalp. He sounded like he was sniffing.

  “Are you okay?” I asked through booms of thunder and howling wind.

  “Of course!” Bravado now in his voice. “Does anything hurt? Your head? Can you move your feet?”

  “My head seems okay.” I wiggled my fingers then my toes. “Yes.”

  He patted my shoulder. “Thank God,” he whispered.

  “But what’s holding me down, Fitz?”

  Lightning blazed through the night.

  “Roots. Sharp as spikes!” In the fast, certain voice of the comandante he said, “Holly, I’ve got to lift this goddamn tree off you. Hold on.”

  I lay flat, listening to him, trying not to panic at the tipping of the raft as the storm raged around us. I saw him through flashes of lightning, as if through a kaleidoscope. I told myself he’s here and he’s okay. I’ll be fine, too.

  He bent down close to my cheek. “We’ve got to hurry. This damn thing could sink the raft. Close your eyes so the roots don’t scratch them. Cover your head!”

  He groaned as he tried to lift the trunk. The roots scraped my naked back. They felt like they were going deep. I screamed.

  “I’m sorry! I’m just one goddamn man here!”

  The rain was piercing me like needles.

  “It won’t budge!”

  I tried to be quiet so Fitz could concentrate. All of a sudden I felt a stinging, burning sensation. It began on my scalp then ran down my neck, onto my bare shoulders and then my back, like flames blistering my skin. “I’m on fire! Please, help me!”

  Fitz jostled the tree trunk again.

  “What is it? I can’t stand it.”

  “I can’t see anything,” he yelled.

  Lightning flashed.

  “I’m burning!”

  “Fire ants!”

  I pleaded with Fitz to help me as the unseen ants rushed over my body, biting relentlessly. I tried to lift my head, but I was pinned down inside a chamber of tree limbs and roots.

  “You’ve got to get out,” Fitz commanded. “You’re going to have to move backward, Holly. Can you?”

  “Yes!”

  As the raft thumped up and down on the wild river, Fitz crawled toward my feet to guide me out.

  I started shifting backward on my stomach. Something yanked my scalp. My hair was caught! I could feel roots and branches surround me like stakes. Stay calm, I told myself. You can do this. Thunder bellowed as I reached up behind my neck to free my hair. I felt for the ends of the strands, trying to loosen them. It was taking too long. Streaming all over me were the biting fire ants.

  “Keep coming!” Fitz shouted over the storm.

  “My hair’s caught!” I wanted to rip my long hair out. I wished I was bald. “I can’t see what I’m doing,” I cried. My hands kept working until I felt the strands loosen. I yanked until the ends came free. Then I wriggled backward, one hand over my head to cover my hair, the other hand pushing as the barbs scratched and the ants burned all over me.

  “Come on. Come on. You’re almost here!” Fitz lifted the last part of the roots and I was out.

  He grabbed my shoulders. I collapsed into his arms, sobbing as we rocked violently back and forth with the waves. Fire ants still covered my skin. “I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it,” I wept, pulling away from Fitz to slap at them.

  The Pink Palace jerked up and down, tipping deeper into the river.

  “The raft!” Fitz turned toward the bow. “We’ve got to get this tree off. Grab whatever you can and shove hard.”

  Despite the merciless stinging, I forced myself to help. My upper-body strength wasn’t anywhere near Fitz’s, but adrenaline helped me to push as hard as I could. Fitz shouldered the trunk, lifting and jostling it until it slid off the raft and disappeared into the river, we hoped moving beyond us, not to ram us again.

  I held on to the tent frame and stumbled out into the darkness.

  “Don’t go out there!” Fitz yelled. “You’ll go over!”

  “I can’t help it. The ants!”

  The moment I got outside, most of the ants disappeared on the wind. I sniveled, hanging on to the side of the tent, swiping at the pinching creatures that remained under my arms and near my groin.

  “Please come in,” Fitz shouted. He leaned out and grabbed my wrist.

  As I inched my feet along, my hands gripped the frame. Fitz held firmly to my upper arm. When I reached the tent door I fell inside. We both brushed off the rest of the ants, stomping our feet on the floor to destroy them.

  Soon, the storm began to subside until it was nothing more than a few flashes of lightning in the distance. The Madre de Dios relaxed into her quiet, soothing flow as if the squall had never happened. Even the moon dared to show its face through the tent’s sliced plastic.

  The Pink Palace banged against something hard. We peered out to see she was bumping up against trees at the river’s edge. We hadn’t touched trees since we’d left Puerto Heath.

  “We can finally tie up!” Fitz leaned out to grab a branch in the darkness. “Don’t let go of this. I’ll get the painter.” He disappeared out the door.

  I held on to the branch though my legs and arms were rubbery and my skin was still burning.

  “I can’t see a damn thing,” Fitz yelled as he struggled to the stern to retrieve the vine. The raft was pulling away.

  “Hurry, Fitz,” I called out. “I can’t hold on much longer!”

  “I’ve got it!”

  Through moonlight and flashes of distant lightning I saw him swing the vine over the bough. “Keep holding on, Holly. I haven’t tied it yet.” He wrestled with the vine around the branch. “Jesus, it keeps springing away from me!”

  “You can do it, Fitz.”

  “Okay. I’ve knotted the damn thing!” He let the branch go and the vine locked around it.

  “Let’s get some sleep. We’ll see where we are tomorrow.” His voice was weighted with exhaustion.

  My body sank into the sleeping bag. Through the huge hole in the plastic I saw stars emerging. I didn’t care that the tent was in shreds, or that the sleeping bag was sopping wet. I was beyond feeling my body’s mass of welts and stings. I warmed myself in Fitz’s arms.

  “It feels like a bad dream,” I said. “I hope we wake up to find out this didn’t really happen.”

  Fitz was already drifting off. I lay awake, listening to the departing thunder, unable to worry about wild animals that might approach us through the darkness now that we were tied to the riverbank.

  Chapter 13

  Where Are We?

  FEBRUARY 19

  Leafy branches hung above the torn tent. They were bathed in the soft light of dawn against a pale blue sky. A concerto of wildlife was erupting outside. My mind flashed to last night’s storm and the spear-pointed petrified roots of the tree. Relief poured over me. We’d landed. We were safe. Ouch! My arms and legs were covered with scrapes, bruises—and, worse, itching dime-sized red welts. Before I realized it, I was digging my nails into them. I tried to scratch around the bites, but scarlet circles puffed up. Finally I forced myself to stop before they bled.

  Parrots chattering high above us jiggled branches incessantly. I wondered if they noticed us. Fitz slept through the racket. We would have to repair the tent before setting off, but with luck we would be in Riberalta by sundown.

  I couldn’t believe our trip on the Madre de Dios was almost over. Pioneering down the river, just the two of us, had been delightful despite the storm, the border shooting, and the frightening abuse by the border g
uards. Still, I looked forward to seeing people again.

  “Caw, caw, caw!” a bird called loudly.

  Curious to see where we’d tied up last night, I crept outside the tent.

  A red macaw cried shrilly before taking off over my head then disappearing into the foliage. Sunlight peeked over the horizon of trees to the east, melting raindrops, touching the mist that swirled above the placid water. Inhaling the moist air, I felt a promise of renewal, savored the tranquility of this other side of nature.

  The raft looked intact, though thrust deeply into the bushes. Finding a clear spot to sit on her edge, I lifted my face to the light, half closing my eyes to relax in the sun’s warmth. I felt so lucky after last night. I wanted always to remember how the air was baby’s-breath soft, how the sun danced on the water then touched my skin.

  All my senses were heightened, taking in the lily pads near our raft, big as platters; the chartreuse frog that sat languidly, like me, embracing the moment; a mystifying odor—faint but dank—that wafted on the sweet, clean scents. I couldn’t quite place it.

  Rustling came from inside. Seconds later, Fitz stuck out his head, knocking it on the low tent frame again. “Hi, Hol! How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thanks to you!” He came to sit next to me; we held each other, my head resting on his shoulder. I looked up at his unruly curls and tried to comb them with my fingers. My own hair was a tangled mess. “My hair got snarled by the tree attack!”

  Fitz’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, but then he grew thoughtful.

  “I don’t know how you got that tree off the raft before it sank us,” I continued.

  “It felt like a goddamn boulder. It shakes me how close that tree came to crushing your head.”

  “Fitz!” My back trembled. “I thought I almost lost you.”

  “It was awful.”

  We tightened our grip around each other for a few minutes. Then Fitz rose to check out the raft’s condition. “Jesus, the tent’s ripped to hell on both sides.” He pushed his way into the web of branches that held the Pink Palace, thrusting his weight against one of the sturdier limbs. The raft didn’t budge.