Resurrection Pass

by Kurt Anderson

  “I have gone into the woods many times,” Henry said. “For many reasons.”

  “Don’t play games,” Darius said, rubbing at the pink scar in his eyebrow. “I’ll leave your carcass out here for the ravens to pick apart.”

  “I’m not playing any games.” He hated the whiny, almost subservient tone of his voice. Darius was one of the few people he had ever met who genuinely scared him, and not just because Darius was stronger and faster than Henry. When Darius said things, like how he would leave Henry’s body out here as carrion, he meant every word. Despite whatever help Henry might be able to provide, Darius would not hesitate to gut him, or anyone else, if he was provoked. In another place in the world, Henry was certain Darius would either be in prison or a mental hospital.

  “She said you had no visions.”

  “I did not.”

  “Elsie spoke highly of you,” Darius said.

  “We were friends once.”

  “I’m not talking about when you used to fuck her,” Darius said. “She said you would help me see, once we got to Asiskiwiw.”

  From the riverbank someone gave a muted curse, and they turned to watch Garney kick at a birch sapling, sending it to the ground. “The valley has been quiet for many years,” Henry said, “and the stories were old when I was a child. There may be nothing there.”

  “You don’t believe that. I see it in your scared old man’s face.”

  Henry shrugged. “When I went, I saw nothing.”

  It was true. For five days he had fasted on the top of the ridge overlooking Asiskiwiw, trying to block out all physical sensation—the dew soaking into his knees, the bugs trundling across his body, the rustling of the breeze, and the animals in the forest at his back. Deeper and deeper, all thought gone. But he had seen nothing with his eyes closed, and when he opened his eyes there was just a long, barren valley filled with odd rock formations, marked by a sluggish river at the bottom. In the mornings, the bluffs on the far side of the valley would catch the rising sun, and he would take some time to explore the rock faces with his eyes, tracing the lichen-crusted precipices, the narrow hogback ridge that cut down the middle of the bluffs. That was all he had seen.

  And as for what he had heard, in the end he decided it was nothing, just auditory hallucinations, his mind seeking to fill in the void caused by his absence from other human beings. There were whispers, soft and cajoling, a warm voice filled with laughter, always deep in the night, asking and suggesting, never commanding, inviting him down to the softer ground at the bottom of the valley. For it was there he would find his vision, the voice promised; it was there where Henry Redsky would at last join the ranks of maskihkîwiyiniwiw, of those who saw.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Henry waved at a hovering mosquito, then gestured in front of him, at the dark clouds that had started to form on the western horizon. “The river,” he said. “It’s not getting any lower. Let’s get moving.”

  * * *

  The river bottom was silt, the fine sediment giving way under his boots as he labored out into the middle of the first channel. It was better walking than the slime-covered rocks on the Big Glutton, which only required a minor misstep to send you sprawling into the muscular current. Still, he had to keep his feet moving to keep from sinking in, and the water was cold, even after the atypically warm summer. The current was fast, and though it only reached his waist, by midstream his progress was painfully slow. Before each step, he dug his wading stick into the crumbly bottom, wedged his boot against it, and put his next foot out a step. The rope dragged in the current, threatening to pull him downstream.

  Finally, he slogged out of the first channel and onto the island. He pushed aside the screen of willows and crossed to the far side to survey the rest of the river. The other braids were narrower, with the exception of the final channel, which ran along the far bank. Instead of frothing and foaming like the other river segments, it was smooth and fast, marked only by swirling boils.

  He backtracked, picking up the slack in the rope, and studied the men on the other side.

  “Come on,” he shouted.

  Weasel stepped into the river, pausing for a moment when the cold water hit him, then started across.

  Weasel was a small man, not much larger than a teenage boy, and he didn’t know how to wade in a current. He turned sideways, facing upstream and keeping both hands on the rope, taking the brunt of the force of the current on his body. He was panting by the time he made it across, and did not release the rope until both of his feet were on the silty bank of the island. Billy crossed next, and after a moment’s discussion, Garney transferred his end of the rope to Darius and splashed across the river. After Garney was on the bank, Darius slipped the end of the rope around his waist and waded into the river. Henry gathered up the loose rope in big coils as Darius splashed up to join them.

  Darius pushed through the willows and started wading across the next channel. The water never rose above Darius’s knees, and the rest of the men exchanged quick glances and followed Darius, using the wading sticks, as Henry had. They crossed the next several braids easily. The last island was shaped like a teardrop, filled bank to bank with a dense mat of willows. They paused, catching their breath for the final crossing. Henry knelt for a second to examine some bear tracks pressed into the silt. The big rear paw prints were almost humanoid, over ten inches long. A large bear. It had wandered the edge of the island and then crossed back to where they had just come from, looking for god knew what. Beyond them, the last channel surged past, the boils breaking and swirling on the surface.

  “Go ahead,” Henry said, waving an arm.

  Darius studied the current. “This one might be trouble.”

  “Yes,” Henry said. The river had not been nearly this high the last time he had been here. It was almost at spring levels, and nobody crossed the Braids before July or after September. The bear tracks affected him a little too, as they always did. The bear was no danger to them, and he was not scared of being attacked. But it had been here recently, and in all likelihood it had known they were there for some time, watching them with its pig eyes, scenting them with its great wet muzzle.

  “Can we cross this?” Billy asked.

  “Give me the rope,” Henry said. “We’ll need it on this one. Tighten down your slings and packs. We might get a little wet.”

  The channel rushed along the far bank for as far as the eye could see. Much of the power of the river was diffused in the rest of the braids, but the main artery was here. The far bank was steep, leveling off several feet up at a grassy swale ringed by large paper birches. It looked like a park, or some foreign land, and Henry tried to imagine standing there on the high ground, in the grass, with the river behind them.

  “Wait a sec,” Garney said. “The guy who goes first, it seems bad, but he’s got the rope around him. The other guys can pull him back in.”

  “Yes,” Henry said.

  Garney turned to the others. “The last guy, he’s tied up too. But the other guys, they lose their hold on the rope, they don’t got nothing.”

  Darius stepped up close to Garney. “Spit it out.” His voice was cold. “What do you want?”

  “I’m just saying, maybe we should figure out a different way.”

  “Listen,” Henry said. “I’ll go in whatever order you guys want me to. But somebody has to make it across first with the rope. They might have to swim for it.”

  He was looking at Darius when he spoke, and the others were looking at him, too. Darius didn’t look particularly concerned, just impatient, but Henry noticed that his eyes kept flitting to the river, just like everyone else’s were. He’s going to volunteer to go first, Henry thought. He can’t swim worth a shit, but he’s got to prove he’s the big man, the leader of the Okitchawa, the great—

  “Henry’s the best swimmer,” Darius said. “He goes first. Garney goes last.”

  Henry stepped into the river. The water was up to his waist before he
had gone ten steps, and now he could feel the stones under his boots, coated with summer slime. He moved carefully, wedging his boots against the sides of the rocks. The water seemed colder in this channel, making his breath short. It crept up his ribs, and he felt his body wanting to lift. He was going to have to swim for it and was bracing himself for the full immersion in the cold water when he bumped into something hard and rounded. He prodded it with his wading stick, feeling out the contours as the river tugged and pulled at him.

  It was a big log, submerged crossways in the current. He could not see it in the silty water, but it was only several feet down, probably a massive pine that had been carried here from the old forests to the northeast. Now that he knew it was there, he could see a long line of boils on the surface marking its location, the displaced water flowing under and over the log all the way to the far bank. He scraped his wading stick along the top of the log. It still had bark on it, and would not be nearly as slippery as the bottom.

  Moving very slowly, he climbed onto the log and straightened. The river only came to mid-thigh, and although the current was still pushing against him, the force was much less. He prodded some more with the wading stick, delineating the rounded edges of the log, and took a step forward. The log was steady under his feet. He took another step, his heels digging into the bark. It had started to sprinkle rain, and the river surface dimpled around him.

  Don’t rush, he thought. Be an old man and shuffle.

  It was very hard to do, because the bank was growing closer and closer, and he knew that it would only take six or seven big strides to reach it. But he moved slowly, and the log held firm, and in a minute he stepped onto the steep, crumbling bank. He held up a hand for Weasel to wait, then scrambled up the bank and looped the rope around a large birch. When he was done, the rope hung down loosely like a suspension cable just upstream of the series of boils, almost directly over the submerged log.

  Weasel went under twice before he reached the log, the little man sputtering and blowing. Even when he was under, his hands were moving, pulling him along the rope. Weasel finally clawed his way back onto the log, shook his head to clear the water from his eyes, and nearly ran across the log to the far side. Billy went next, his normally sinuous movement made jerky and uncertain by his fear. His progress was more thoughtful than Weasel’s, and it took him five solid minutes to make the crossing. Darius crossed easily, and Henry could tell he had been studying those who had gone before, avoiding the areas where others had slipped. He did not clutch the rope as Billy and Weasel had, instead running his hand along it, ready to use it if needed but not relying on it.

  Just like he’s using me, Henry thought. He had already decided they would take another route on the return trip, a longer but easier path. There would be no need to hurry on the way home, and there would be little argument from the others.

  Darius stepped onto the bank. On the far side of the channel, Garney wrapped two loops of rope around his waist. He waded into the river, jaw clenched.

  Henry was already mapping the rest of the trip to Asiskiwiw, less than a half day’s journey once they crossed the river. There had been the remnants of a path when he had ventured there decades earlier, not much more than a game trail, marked by ancient blazes on some of the oldest pines. At several junctures, there were small piles of stones stacked on top of each other, the ages-old marker that could mean anything, from a simple trail marker to a warning to stay away. The trail was likely to have completely grown over by now, but the land itself would point the way; Resurrection Valley was marked by the high bluffs to the north, and the river that drained it could always be traced upstream. That was easier said than done, for the river only resembled a true stream for a short stretch before it spread out into a swampy morass.

  He was still thinking about the path to the valley when Garney, who had just gained the log—and who looked like he was finally convinced he might make the crossing—fell. He went down in one movement, no teetering or attempt to regain his balance, his feet just swept from under him. He plunged into the river on the upstream side of the log and disappeared. A large section of waterlogged bark surfaced downstream, rolling over in the current and sinking once again.

  A piece of bark came off under his feet, Henry thought. Shit. The effect would be like a banana peel.

  The back of Garney’s head appeared a second later, his face down and just inches above the surface, the cords in his neck quivering as he struggled to keep his mouth and nose above the water. Henry and Billy yanked in the slack, pausing when they felt resistance, then pulling again. Garney’s head dipped down and they heard him scream something into the water, just inches from his mouth.

  “He’s stuck,” Henry said, pressing the coil of rope into Billy’s chest. “Keep this tight.”

  He jumped into the river, on the upstream side of the log, and splashed toward Garney. He could feel nubs of limbs, broken off by the log’s rolling journey down the river, banging against his feet. The water swarmed over him, up to his waist, then his ribs, shoving him against the log. The tangle of limbs grew as he approached Garney, and Henry could feel other debris lodged against them, a rat’s nest of waterlogged sticks, the force of the river wedging them ever tighter against the log.

  Garney was sucking in great breaths of air, his entire body straining with effort to keep his face above the rushing water. Henry stepped through the mess of large broken-off limbs under the water, then leaned down to shout over the sound of the river.

  “Where are you caught?”

  Garney took a deep breath and coughed out something Henry couldn’t hear. He repeated the question, and this time he could make out enough of the word to understand; his ankle was wedged under the log.

  Henry dove. The river current filled his ears with its frantic and swarming music. He followed Garney’s leg down to where it disappeared under the slick black mass of the log. There was little light, and the water was so turbid that he could not see anything, so he let his hands see for him, tracing the contours of the ankle and the branch that had entrapped it. His hands found the culprit, a small tree that had been caught against the larger pine log. It was forked, and when Garney had fallen his foot had slipped into the open V. The force of the river was pushing his leg under the bigger log, pulling Garney with it.

  Henry pushed himself back up. Garney was being pulled closer to the water, his breath now bubbling against the surface. Several veins had broken on his neck from the effort of keeping his head above water, and Henry knew he only had a minute left, perhaps seconds. He dove down again, ignoring Garney’s grasping hands.

  Henry grasped the forked sapling and pulled back. A stream of bubbles swirled out of his mouth as he pulled, his adrenaline-soaked muscles working to pull the sapling up and away, the current fighting him every inch. After a few seconds he released his hold and surfaced again.

  “Help me!” he yelled at the cluster of men on the bank. “I need someone to help me!”

  Weasel looked at Henry stupidly, then turned to Darius, whose eyes were narrowed in a strange, hateful expression. Then Billy jumped into the river and started splashing toward him. The sound of Garney’s breathing had grown muted, and when Henry looked down he saw that Garney’s mouth was underwater: He was relegated to breathing through his nostrils.

  “We only have time for one more try,” Henry said. “I pull back, you yank his ankle free.”

  They went under in unison, and Henry took the tree in his hands and planted his feet against the trunk of the log. He straightened, and the forked sapling pulled back again those same scant inches. He felt Billy heaving on Garney’s ankle next to him. Garney’s leg remained wedged, and Billy let go of it and joined Henry, pulling the forked tree back, two inches, three inches, a full foot. The tree slid back, and the dark, frantic presence of Garney slashed toward the surface. Henry let go of the tree and clawed after him

  Garney and Billy were already almost to the shore. Henry waded after them, the tangle of limb
s and debris under his feet like clutching hands. He stumbled onto the shore, and Darius reached down and hauled him onto dry land.

  He lay there hacking. To his side Garney and Billy were retching out the sour river water. Henry felt as though there was no strength left in any part of him—just enough juice to clear his lungs and power his still-hammering heart. Also to process the sound of the river, which did not sound animate or threatening or lovely. It just sounded like a river that had almost killed them.

  After a while he pushed himself onto one elbow. The rain was coming down harder now, a cool late summer shower. “I know another way across when we come home,” he said. “If anyone is interested.”

  Weasel and Garney looked at him. Henry had always liked to tease when things were very serious, and even though they weren’t getting it, didn’t appreciate that he was trying to lighten the mood, he liked the look in their eyes, serious, washed clean of the confidence—and the contempt—he’d seen there earlier.

  There was silence for a long time. Eventually Garney sat up, then reached down to help Billy do the same.

  “We should take it easy for the rest of the day,” Darius offered.

  There was no response. When Billy answered Henry realized that he had been waiting for him to speak; they all had been waiting for Billy. “No,” he said. He was dripping wet and still breathing hard, the rain running down his face. “Let’s finish this.”

  Chapter 10

  Jake stood at the top of the ridge, bent over with his hands at his hips. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, and there was a sharp pain in his side as though he’d been stabbed. In front of him the tents were a bright jumble of colors, still covered in dew from the night before. There was no smoke from the fire, but he could smell it as he sucked in breath after breath, the sharp, acrid scent of the blackened embers. It was a welcome smell after the constant boggy odor of the river bottom. The rain clouds had not arrived yet, but he could see the front coming, a low bank of dark clouds scuttling in from the west.