Ruthless River

by Holly Fitzgerald

  I had no cramps, so I decided to take the new raft to search for more berries before the birds ate them all. Pulling my baggy jeans up my toothpick legs, I tightened them with my sash before dragging a shirt over my head. I moistened my mouth with water from the canteen then gulped it down and started out the door.

  Fitz yawned.

  I turned back. “How are you?”

  He rubbed his middle. “No repercussions! Let’s have the others.”

  We each ate five berries, sweet, with an aftertaste of dirt.

  “I’m going for more,” I said.

  “I’m going with you. I feel lucky today.”

  I smiled at that, but I was worried about him. “Please rest. You did too much yesterday.”

  “I’m all right,” he said, trying to get up onto his knees. He rocked and staggered.

  “Please. You’ll be worse if you come.”

  His blue eyes looked glassy, but he was persistent, dragging on his jeans and shirt then crawling after me.

  We saw no bees as we set out on the new raft.

  “I like her,” Fitz said.

  “Easier to maneuver.” I glanced back at him, cocking my head. “You gave me a lot of gray hairs, though.”

  Fitz smiled. “I don’t see any.”

  The smell from the jungle and the marsh was dank, but the sun sparkled on the channel, making me feel hopeful as we moved slowly across the swamp. Small sparrow-sized yellow birds chirped and flitted nearby. Not near enough to capture.

  Fitz’s eyes began to flicker: he wanted to cut branches to widen one of our unused tightly woven fiber hammocks. “It’ll make a big fish net. We’ll get that damn fish yet.”

  As we paddled along the bushes of the tree line, he cut small branches with the Swiss army knife I’d given him in La Paz for Christmas. “At least we have this,” he said, and smiled as he laid the branches between us in the middle of the new raft. “Not quite a machete. Not that I could lift one anyway.”

  We picked off snails from the logs and headed to where a mild breeze blew the hay-colored marsh grasses. Colorful birds flew in and out of bushes as we skimmed right by them. Other water plants had short blades of brilliant chartreuse, which, I hoped, hid snails and frogs and lizards. Intermittent bushes and small trees grew from the mud and water. Dead branches were strewn throughout, all places for marsh birds to land.

  A flash passed me. It was a four-inch grasshopper, bigger than any I’d seen at home, and it landed right on a reed beside me. I swept my hand down fast and caught her. When I took a peek I saw she had a little one on her back. I placed them carefully in the tin.

  “It’s amazing we’re so close to the birds and they’re not upset. They don’t even seem to notice us,” I said. I watched one with a twig in its mouth dart out of sight into the trees.

  “It must be making a nest,” Fitz said.

  Another bird went into a bush. We didn’t say a word, just paddled the raft in that direction and followed the trees.

  “There’s a nest!” Fitz whispered as we came to a forked branch overhead.

  “Are there eggs in it?” I asked, wetting my lips.

  Fitz reached up and touched the nest. No birds squawked a warning. Using both hands, he pulled at the nest and carefully lowered it down to the raft. Three baby birds were huddled together, their eyes open and their mouths gaping, pleading for food. They were tiny but already had brown and yellow feathers. They looked almost ready to fly. Fitz handed me the nest to hold as he paddled.

  “Oh, Fitz.” I choked up. At home we would have fed them with an eyedropper. Here we would eat them. I tried not to look at the little birds.

  —

  Fitz cut their heads off and drained their blood into the frying pan. He skewered their minuscule bodies on a stick and held it over hot coals. The feathers singed, burned, then disappeared. The birds had hardly any meat on them, but we chewed every morsel and sucked every bone, cracking each one to try to reach marrow. When the blood was heated, Fitz carefully poured some of it into my cupped hands then put the pan to his lips. I slurped the blood, licking my palms and fingers.

  The grasshoppers steaming on top of the grill turned bright red. Their sliver of meat tasted like bad lobster. The snails, a few berries, the three baby birds, and grasshoppers together constituted our biggest meal in almost three weeks.

  Fitz gave me a half smile. “Things are starting to look up,” he said as he ate the last fleck of grasshopper leg.

  We both felt lighter in spirit. Our meal wasn’t enough to live on, but hope had brightened us like coals in a breeze. We held hands and gave thanks both to God and to the creatures who’d forfeited their lives.

  “Want to help me make the big fish net?” Fitz looked eager.

  We trimmed the leaves off the branches we’d collected and wove them through the sides of the hammock to stretch the netting. We tied lines to either side of it and attached them to the raft. We thought that we needed only to wait for a fish to swim over the net; then we would easily lift the net and grab the fish. We shoved our net over the side and watched it gurgle as it slowly sank into the swamp, its sides barely visible. I wondered how we would know if a fish swam in. We would have to watch it constantly for any ripples and then quickly pull it up before the fish swam out again.

  Wordless, Fitz and I sat waiting at the edge of the Pink Palace as dusk and the mosquitoes came. An occasional fish did break the surface but was always outside the net. We tried pulling up the net to see if we’d caught anything by chance. It was heavier than we’d expected. Pulling it against the weight of the water drained us. Soon we were gasping for breath.

  “Let’s leave the hammock in the water. It’s too heavy to pull out,” Fitz said, and twisted his growing mustache. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

  “It is a good idea. If we hear a fish in there our adrenaline will make us get it.”

  Fitz continued to stare at the submerged net. Then he turned to me, his eyes brightening.

  “I’ve got a wonderful dinner I’m going to make for you when we get home.” He slapped at the mosquitoes around his face. “Let’s get inside and I’ll tell you about it. I’ve gone over it a hundred times.”

  Appreciating the distraction, I listened as Fitz described his seven-course meal, starting with appetizers, ending with strawberry shortcake.

  We grew silent as the sounds of dusk began to wind down. The buzzing, the chirping, and the sawing of grasshoppers’ legs all gave way to night. The sounds came every day, in the same order, so I was getting used to many of them: the mosquitoes’ hum, the monster whirlpool roar, the trees rustling with animals we could never see. Nothing had tried to kill us yet. It was the sounds I didn’t hear very often that unnerved me.

  “When we have children, I think they should take a survival course and learn what’s okay to eat in the jungle,” I suggested.

  “Yes. We should take it, too.”

  “We’ll all take it together. Maybe they’ll be the kind of kids who want to stay home.” Fitz chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  —

  Shrieking shimmied across the swamp during the night, waking us up with a start. The sharp screams were so loud they seemed to rock the rain forest and reverberate around the tent. Lying under the mosquito netting, we sought solace in each other’s arms. We guessed it could be a jaguar roaming the hardened earth somewhere beyond the quickmud. Its cry suggested that there was land out there, and if we ever got to the land it would be waiting for us. Each time the jaguar screeched I felt my back quiver. I drew closer to Fitz until there was no space between us.

  “I don’t like this,” I murmured.

  Fitz kissed my mouth. He rubbed my shoulder and my arm and then touched my wilted breast. For a few seconds my mind was diverted to a suite in the Plaza Hotel, in New York City. Then the jaguar howled again, an angry street cat hiss.

  “What if he climbs from tree to tree and jumps in here?” I whispered.

  “These trees are fli
msy,” Fitz countered.

  “The tree we slept in was strong.”

  We waited in silence for the next scream.

  “Cats can swim when they have to,” I added, apprehensively.

  “Not in quickmud. That’ll trap him.”

  I prayed that the jaguar would not smell us and come any closer. I also prayed that the caimans would not swim up onto our low-riding raft, snapping jaws ready for what was left of our flesh. As always, I prayed desperately that we would be saved.

  MARCH 11

  Twenty-first day trapped

  —

  Today was rough for Fitz.

  Each time we paddled in search of food, we also looked for sticks and rotting branches to use for fires in the stove. We had been snapping branches off of a dead tree that was conveniently lodged horizontally into the marsh, not far from the Pink Palace, but today I realized it was becoming increasingly hard to snap off the brittle twigs. Fitz had pulled the red Swiss army knife from his jeans to cut off the deadwood. His hand trembled as he tried to open it. He couldn’t grasp the blade with his fingers. The knife slipped from his palm and slid into the water. We each gasped as it disappeared.

  Fitz’s head fell forward onto his chest. “I couldn’t catch it.” His voice shook as if he were in mourning.

  “Oh, Fitz, please don’t worry. We’ve still got the Girl Scout knife.”

  “But you gave me that knife,” he sniffed, lifting his hand to wipe his eye.

  “It’s okay.”

  We foraged for food in silence, picking twenty berries, pulling a few snails off logs, and just missing two frogs. Fitz was totally dejected. It was as if, with each day, we were losing pieces of ourselves in a protracted struggle with the jungle. I wasn’t sure what I could say to console him. This was a new Fitz—a peeled-away, weaker Fitz.

  Chapter 36

  Rising Fear

  MARCH 12

  Twenty-second day trapped

  Tap, tap, tap. The round shadows bounced against the plastic as we were pulling on our clothes.

  “They’re here again.” I fumbled to button my blouse.

  “Damn.”

  The air was stagnant and excruciatingly hot. Already we were sweating copiously.

  “We need to get some air in here! We’ll just have to endure them,” Fitz muttered.

  I opened the mosquitero and the tent flap, hoping for any possible breeze. The swarm of bees burst in. Half of them landed on me, the rest on Fitz. They moved over my lips and along my hairline, where perspiration dripped down my face. Closing my eyes, I tried to keep control of my mind. Freaking out would waste precious energy. The bees crept over every inch of our exposed skin, into Fitz’s beard and the creases of our eyes. Their continuous hum was a warning not to stir, but it was impossible to lie perfectly still. My bare foot landed on a bee. It stung me before dying. I yearned to wipe the sweat off my brow.

  “I can’t stand this,” Fitz cried, rising stiffly to his knees to go outside. Bees were crawling up his jeans and into his sleeves to his armpits. Every time he moved they stung him.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” he groaned as he banged through the door.

  “I’m coming in a minute,” I called after him.

  I lay back on the sleeping bag, gathering strength to rise again. Abruptly, through the buzzing, I heard sobs. My head rose fast. “What’s wrong?” I asked. I struggled to my knees.

  Perturbed bees stung me as I pushed out to the deck through air so humid I felt I was submerged in water.

  Head in his hands, Fitz sat at the stern, weeping.

  “Fitz, what is it?” I looked for blood, but he appeared to be unharmed. I couldn’t see his face. “Fitz, please, tell me what’s wrong.” Bees were stinging me inside my pants and top. I crawled along the logs toward him, my kneecaps aching.

  He gradually turned to face me, sunlight on his wet cheeks, tears running into his beard.

  “It’s gone,” he whispered.

  “What’s gone?” I asked softly. I wanted to be by his side. Damn, I was so slow.

  “I got in the water and my wedding ring fell off,” he choked out between gulps of air. His face was contorted. “It slipped off. I couldn’t catch it.”

  It had fit just right the day we’d picked it out in Westville, Connecticut, a month before our wedding. His gold band, like my own, was engraved with our initials and wedding date. His ring had never been off his finger.

  “Oh,” I said, thankful that he wasn’t physically hurt. When I reached him he leaned his head on my shoulder. His tears made me cry, too. This was the second time in two days that he’d lost something he cared about. They were material things that back home we would not sob over, but here they meant everything.

  “Everything’s being taken from us,” he said, his voice muffled in my hair. He lifted his head to shout angrily again at the sky, but this time he stopped midsentence and began to weep. We held each other for a while, crying. It was better than words. The tears felt cleansing.

  Then Fitz pulled himself from me, his eyes wild. “Is there nothing this goddamn river won’t take? Is God going to take everything I care about?”

  “We’ve still got each other,” I reminded him quietly. Even though Fitz had fallen apart before, watching it happen continued to terrify me. I saw his shaken mind and collapsing body declining further as we continued to starve. I didn’t think I could ever get used to my husband crumbling before my eyes.

  He held out his left hand to show me where the ring had been, his fingers revealing the shape of every bone. He began to sob again.

  I crooked my shoulder and arms around him, urging him to hear me, to feel some relief.

  “Fitz, we’ll get another ring,” I told him. “We can have it engraved the same way.”

  “It won’t be the real ring.”

  “No. It’ll carry extra meaning because of all we’ve been through together. It’ll be a true symbol of our love and perseverance.”

  He didn’t say anything, but his shoulders relaxed into me.

  We held each other as we sat on the edge of the raft, only inches above this offshoot of the Madre de Dios, our source of life, providing drinking water, but also the source of our wretchedness and the probable cause of our death. This ruthless river might win, but not yet. Not yet.

  I reassured Fitz that we could make it home; we just had to get past this dreadful moment.

  I’d only ever seen him cry once before, and that, too, had been here in this damned swamp.

  —

  We rested all morning in the tent, if such is rest, with the bees our constant companions. For all my momentary vigor to keep Fitz from despondency, I was floundering. I felt so lost that I couldn’t even write in my journal. Once, when I was a child of eight or nine, I’d felt uncertainty when I heard my parents arguing. My mother was sobbing. My dad’s normally soft voice was loud, and then he banged the door and left the house. I crept into the room. Our world seemed to be falling apart. I tried to console my mom, arms around her. When she calmed down, I’d felt that I’d helped. I was a lot more uncertain now. Now I wasn’t sure if I could help at all.

  Chapter 37

  Tiny Frogs

  MARCH 13

  Twenty-third day trapped

  The smell of bacon frying wafted down the hall, teased me awake, as did my mother’s boisterous voice and Zelda’s high-pitched bark. Pulling back the blanket, I sat up in my childhood bed.

  Fitz’s raucous laugh made me turn to see an indentation in his pillow. He was already in the kitchen, telling tales. The peals of laughter rose like musical notes: a cacophony of rhythms. I could hear the distinctive voices of the Conklins and the FitzGeralds. They’d all come to welcome us home.

  They were seated at the oak table because I could hear it creak. Dad had replaced its original Victorian pedestal with steel legs, his idea of keeping current. The legs wobbled beneath the weight of the tabletop, even when leveled with slivers of wood. My shoulders and neck relaxed back into the pillows;
I felt buoyed by the voices and smells of home. On the wall opposite my bed was the Henri Rousseau–type jungle mural I’d painted when I was seventeen. Friends thought it remarkable that my parents had allowed me to paint my walls any way I chose. I was so glad my parents hadn’t painted over it in the years since I’d moved out.

  It was still winter and cool as I rose, sliding on my slippers, jeans, and sweatshirt to hurry down the hall. I’d soon be filling myself with breakfast.

  As I turned the corner into the kitchen, Mom was pulling steaming corn bread from the oven. “Here, darling.” She handed me a piece then put her arms around me. I hugged her until I trembled.

  Someone laughed from the kitchen table. “Hey, Hol, did that lady in Peru really serve you the rump of a guinea pig?”

  “Oh, yes.” I laughed, walking toward everyone. “Poor Fitz—he got the head.” I doubled over, giggling. “He couldn’t eat it then, but if we’d had it in the swamp we would have devoured it.”

  Salivating, I bit into the buttery corn bread then stuffed the rest into my mouth. I hugged Mom again. I hugged her until I couldn’t breathe and tears came to my eyes.

  As cotton candy dissolves at the touch of a tongue, so went my mother and the corn bread. My eyes snapped open to see the gauzy tomb of mosquito netting that cascaded from the tent peak to fold beneath our sleeping bag. Somehow bees had pushed past the tent flap and penetrated the mosquitero. They were buzzing, licking, swarming over me. I turned to see Fitz lying prostrate, covered in bees.

  Overhead, a loud droning. Two large black insects that looked like hornets, each the length of my palm, dipped up and down inside the tent peak, carrying daubs of mud. They had begun to build their home just a few feet above us. It was as if we didn’t exist. I closed my eyes, desperate to return to my dream.

  The bees continued to crawl across my saggy, bug-bitten skin, fiercely determined to lick every drop of salty sweat. My fingernails were split from paddling and pulling bushes and vines, from clawing in rotten logs for grubs. My skinny legs were bruised from banging into rocks and roots, unseen in the muddy water. We were sleeping so much now that I knew we were near to sleeping forever.